With my words I weave a scene,
A flawless world that seems pristine.
Verdant trees and babbling brooks,
Lands from ancient story books.
It is in these worlds that I long to be,
Basking in blissful serenity.
Walls of paper blockade my way,
The ink-stained partitions seem to stay.
I wield my pen, my trusty blade,
As I carve a legacy page by page.
These places that I often scribe,
Evade me quite; I cannot lie.
Yet perhaps for a moment I may just pretend,
And weave my scenes until the end.

It ignites inside them; it does boil and swell,
Another emotion man attempts to quell.
But this vapour of hatred and these bubbles of wrath,
Seem determined to scorch those that dare cross their path.
Flames stoked by abhorrence, froth stirred by malice,
"How dare the heathens encroach into our palace?"
This typhoon of sentiment, this eruption of conviction,
I find it to be the source of many an affliction.
Man stands idly by, gawking in shock,
The opportunity passes with the hands of the clock.
The lid though of iron can't contain this hot steam,
The sensation that boasts it would tear at the seam.
Guilt simmers; hope evaporates in shame,
One more missed prevention, yet no one to blame.
Man exclaims rather loudly, "Next time I will help!"
As the downtrodden perish, with a suppressed yelp.

This morbid visage does often tell,
Of the strife and torment that knew me well.
Without the veil of innocent youth,
I find my heart burdened with truth.
For a man as self conscious as me,
No respite from insecurity.
To a prisoner in chains I am akin,
Ever on the outside, looking in.
My heart wavers for I lack conviction,
To break away cursed inhibitions.
Never can I remedy this,
So I escape myself and enter bliss.
For when I am not who I know I am,
I am free from the pain that keeps me ******.