I wish I had answers.

Notions and blind indicators steer my way, yet isn’t enough to bring me a thing.

I’ve been hunting for some time, and have come back eating my bait.
I can’t get myself straight, and maybe I don’t want to.

The blandness of lines and boxes haunts me like caskets I haven’t laid in yet.

I’ve set myself down just to lay around this town, but nothing has killed me more than inactivity.

I yearn for a promiscuity I had sworn away.

Like a prayer for doing better, I gave up my fun and am not happy with what’s left of me. To do what is right isn’t always right. I don’t want to be right. I don’t want to be straight. I don’t want to be dead, or else please, if this life isn’t the thrill I am convinced it can be, then let me die right in the box with straight lines.


Displeased is an underwhelming understatement held under my breath and tucked away under my tongue. My foresight, my forethought is blinded by a steady rage, a tantrum-stricken child….sometimes under a threat, truth emerges,


The threat of my very life is as real as the day, and repeats itself into an endless illusion that mocks my existence with normalcy, conformity, tailored suits and fitted hats to dress me in the fashions of the time, the placement of my being, the casting of my role, the place of my soul.

Who determines these things? I don’t want to rebel, I want to overthrow.

I’ve been so far under,

I want to be overarching in an overt expression that spears skin like melted butter across arid lands.


I’m crowned with answers I cannot wear.

I am given questions, just so I can question myself.

My answers are my freedom. My savior. My ticket.

Let me be the answers,

and question no more.


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