And of course I have become so accustomed to the stress that was a l w a y s there
The w o r r y that always accompanies the need to be busy
The t h i r s t to have a cause
I become withered like a weeping willow
Knarled and twisted and weeping for
e t e r n i t y
and bursting from the inside
Imploding with depth and feeling until my skin breaks-
Filth and dirt in my blood
Commotion and noise clouding my constant thoughts-
I need a cause in
the very same society that tells me
To be a n y t h i n g .
They told me you can be anything-
As long as it’s what t h e y want.
I am trapped in a block a prison a box
Of numbers and percentages And wisdom,
The mandatory concepts
Created by the corrupted human beings
Who call themselves
G o d s .
I resort to
To my l e t t e r s
To my fingers that ache against the plastic squares which
bring out the true form of my being
The essence of my creation
with s t a r s in my eyes
and moon dust in my lungs
I lock myself away in a metal clad box of i r o n .
I convince myself
I am indeed
A h y b r i d running on enigmatic energy
I am one of a kind
Amongst those who believe the s a m e ?
And thus comes up the sondering thoughts
I am just a concept
Another t o o l
Built to worry
Over more made up concepts
I am just…
By us c o r r u p t e d humans…
…We call ourselves g o d s .