Chores
This poetry, this foolery, it’s a chore, it’s a job
It’s my guilty pleasure, it’s an idol, my false god
It controls me, it hurts me
It frees me, it fixes me
This pain is my poison, but oh how I have developed a taste for the bitter
And oh, how poetry is the loss of, yet the gain of the filter
The filter of life, the filter of emotion
Helps us strain fake from real, then twist and shape them into one another in our own ways
We do whatever floats our boat, but the boat’ ends up on great big waves
In the eye of a storm, in the gates of a swarm
A swarm of locusts, our own plagues and trials,
Trials test gold, but am I even metal?
Poetry turns me from paper to metal, surrounded by paper,
In a town of paper, with people of paper, and places of paper.
Scared of the rain, scared of pain
Alchemy, the quest to turn lead to gold, paper to metal
People search, but don’t find
I seek but don't grasp
People are stuck in their binds,
But they don’t realize they are the ones who clasp,
Clasp the chains, not chained up
Stuck but free; their life seems bleak