Nothing candid for me,
thanks.
I like the planned. The known.
The contrived.
The professional.
The way I can’t
feel
inside.
Skeletons.   Mirrors.
It’s so sad that we have to explain that the symbol only matters if we agree on its meaning.
Society doesn’t want to agree that we don’t begin to teach
life’s important milestones.
The corporations sold government at least thirteen years of mandatory education
the breaking of the soul
for a life in a cubicle.
Earn, or die
on the street.
A shell that never knew,
never had a chance.
Just waiting
to be buried.
Oh, but the flashes. The sparkles. The lust and
amusement.
What it means to actually be alive — reduced to a few replayed moments.
The poisons, sanctioned
and otherwise.
The offer to **** everything else.
No rewind.
No delete.
The punches we never get to throw.
Our faces — always that attempt at “best we’ve got.”
The days that pass where we
can’t imagine what
or why
anything matters.
How do we learn the skills that transform us,
or give us the promise to set us free?
Do we think
of this as a time that could even belong to us?
The forced meaning we shove onto
our suffering.
Truths we’d rather never
revisit.
Filters inside of filters.
Inside is a shriveled, ambiguous thing we used to think
of
as an inner child.
What if it’s an old man?
What if it’s the Minotaur with no red thread?
What if the maze is
us,
and
we’re fine wandering?
The escape we wanted was from everything — especially ourselves.
( A self most of us wouldn't recognize, have never actually confronted and were never given the time or space ... to really ever, get to know.).