From: A Slow-Burn Refugee Of the Broken-Back-Pack-Mule
I've had dreams by day? That brought the nightmares back. ?In the daylights exposure it was dark? When the negative light was bright. ? In the sea of people I was the floating remains? Of a Great White's meal.? On the lonely roads of thought?
My mind was in gridlock. Comforting memories were suspended Over a psychic black hole By jagged and rusted
Medieval-type surgical tools. My remaining senses Were nailed to a cross-section Of psychically atrophied grey matter
Along neural pathways Guarded by gladiator-type tormentors Left with nothing But the stinging desire to be freed
From a curse that had to be cured And the hell of searching for a cure When I was convinced there wasn’t one.? The powers that be come with force
To quell primal lusts & desires Forbidding you of them As they seductively Dangle them before your eyes
Until you are so frustrated and unfulfilled That you no longer Care for your world.? This cracked glass remains empty ? Even though it is constantly being filled Then spilled or leaked on the floor Until you learn to lap it up Like the lapdog that you have become
For their amusement. You remain with a love for freedom But your cage is so large? That you think you are free
Lost in societal fantasy. You think for a while That these fantasies are real ? Until you come to your senses that aren’t
As you join other fools? In comfort that you're not the only Broken-back pack-mule.? But in spite of it all?
And in the face of them all Don't let these birds of prey And powers that be Deprive you of what they can't see
In that hidden corner Of what is still untouched The real you Uninfected by the world.?
Take care of your spiritual affairs. Don't let the global beast And your primal hissing forces Make you be your own pallbearer.