They fear what fear is said to be,
the odds becoming numbers,
an expanse of do's below dont's.
You fear what they have told us to fear,
for the odds have become our evens,
and every wish had become our day,
and our day had become a step closer
to the rebellion of the society.
Our bodies fear what we do not,
and they begin to betray us.
The splitting and crossing had not been followed
and we are ****** along the narrow fear
of death.
But we hold on to the little spindle fibers
and the tiny hands that begin to form.
We have beaten fear
and now they fear us.
The white in your eyes,
are the ages that we still have yet to live,
our youth in a matter of minutes,
gone in their fear of us.
You say we can run away,
but even if we find that place
will we really have escaped?
or are we entering the fear again,
like the slaughter of the barn.
The world with their pitchforks and knives
and us awaiting the day when the walls
are burned.
For if they are frightened by our courage
yet we run in fear,
had fear really gone away?
Had we really beaten it?
or have we only scraped through
the first layer,
of Pandoras ungodly box,
only to jump in the dark with your
hand in mine,
to find happiness
when we land.
Oct 19, 2013
Oct 19, 2013 at 1:12 AM UTC
They fear what fear is said to be,
the odds becoming numbers,
an expanse of do's below dont's.
You fear what they have told us to fear,
for the odds have become our evens,
and every wish had become our day,
and our day had become a step closer
to the rebellion of the society.
Our bodies fear what we do not,
and they begin to betray us.
The splitting and crossing had not been followed
and we are ****** along the narrow fear
of death.
But we hold on to the little spindle fibers
and the tiny hands that begin to form.
We have beaten fear
and now they fear us.
The white in your eyes,
are the ages that we still have yet to live,
our youth in a matter of minutes,
gone in their fear of us.
You say we can run away,
but even if we find that place
will we really have escaped?
or are we entering the fear again,
like the slaughter of the barn.
The world with their pitchforks and knives
and us awaiting the day when the walls
are burned.
For if they are frightened by our courage
yet we run in fear,
had fear really gone away?
Had we really beaten it?
or have we only scraped through
the first layer,
of Pandoras ungodly box,
only to jump in the dark with your
hand in mine,
to find happiness
when we land.
Guess who I have this major crush on. He's a character and this poem is dedicated to him. The title says it all.
