Trapped in a Cell of My Own Making
The world
it seems to escape
my understanding
these days,
providing the answers
one day,
only to raise more
the next,
trapping me in a cornfield
of spoiling crops.
Will I pick them
and try and clean them off,
saving the delicious
vittles beneath,
or shall they rot
under the blazing sun,
disintegrating to
a confusing mess?
Cross legged,
I meditate
in a sea of tan,
my mind working
around the stems,
through the leaves,
up the fields,
searching for clarification,
yet more and more
grain spring up,
cutting off my path
with the lithe
of a complex query,
standing tall with pride
that it could so successfully
cease my progress.
And as I scowl,
it simply grows loftier,
catching me in its umbrage,
shackling me in its shadow.
I've sat in this prison before,
the chains tearing at my heart,
ripping at its vessel.
And, somehow,
I've found a few keys,
being forced to choose
which to make my escape with,
unsure of the outcome.
Yet now,
the guards have me pinned
to the bars with their lances,
prodding at me
with japes and weapons alike,
watching me squirm and scream
beneath the pressure and pain,
cackling all the while.
I tried to kick back once or twice,
only to crash back to the cold floor,
pools of pain filling in the cracks
of my hateful cell,
strengthening it with my own hurts.
So,
how is one to break out
of a jail that feeds
off your own sorrow?
Simply stop feeling anymore,
of flood the halls
with waves of coarse,
harsh emotion?
No comments:
Post a Comment