Past the lines!

So!

How many times should we remain victims?

Lost between the lines of one true self

Or reman a societal puppet on a shoe string.

Should we call ourselves free?

Or ringing a bell of admission

As all our steps are a mission 

Unquantifiable with reality.

Soaked deep in denial

While playing victims cards

To our own undoing

Yearn to equate ourselves to another.

While clearly different to one another ...

Made To Be

There is a war of wolves 

Outside my villa 

Calling me a villain 

For chewing hearts of many 

Yet, at the beginning of it all 

My soul was their supper 

In innocence,

They took turns eating me alive.

Now they complain about my hunger 

Busy playing the lone hunter 

At night when the jungle is greener 

Attesting to their handwork 

That made me be.

Stinging every prey insight 

Strung at lampstands 

As the pleasure slaughter 

Continues...

Insta-Booth

Photo by Guilherme Almeida from Pexels
 

All, we cared about

Was painting a picture.

A picture perfect

Yet our imperfections

Always bubbled up to the top.

So! We took a scissor

Cropped up our stories.

But our stories 

Were bitter

about our lies.

So! They exhumed our emotions.

Laid bare our thoughts

That picture perfect

Stood a fallacy

At the alter of reality

And brought to life

Insecurities.

There a broken story

Became us.

A sad nation in fun

As we strolled in lines

That bind our lies

Fostering us

To un-candid pain.