I find it interesting
that in the womb
we kinda curl up in
a ball.
Its like its
because we are
our only friend
and everything is
new and nothing
is too bright or too
loud or ugly.

Then we enter the camp,
the brutish blades of the bourgeoisie
cut our backs with rules and regulations --
with trials and temptations.
But we retain our defensive state
we have heavy naps and sleep in late,
all curled up.

Because we are trying so damned hard to make that shit of the world stick to the wall in our brain.

Then we grow to understand
the rules, but we still cherish
our rebellion in the womb.
That was when everything
was perfect, nothing mattered
and everyone you knew was happy.
So you sleep a little more open,
still apprehensive of the knife on
a timer near your gut.

you break the rules and your virginity
               (its only there because of the rules)
and you let others into your womb
because its warm and nice
and you want to share it.

Then you invite that damned interior
designer in. She starts poking and prodding
and slashing and mashing till it looks like
her womb. Then your like "woah man"
because you didn't sign up for this, you just wanted
a little more world in that womb of yours.
maybe a piece of the Bahamas or the first month of a fling.

Then the economy hits hard.
The best surgeons in the business
cant cover up the scars that she made
on the heart of your womb.
So you sit, depressed about how you
screwed up. about how you lied to
the one thing that was always true to you.
and now you have to leave the thing that really
knew you.

So you walk out side (because you're scraping the place)
and head down the street to where they fabricate those fake ones, for people like you.
So you lay down, completely open this time.
then the timer
goes off
and
then
you
die.




You realize that, to be invincible all you had to do,
was curl up in that ball, and stay in your womb.