They always told me of my pneuma, This creative spirit, Capable of conquering nations or liberating the unjustly incarcerated Unearthing fabled, folkloric myths, With all the pummels I’d expect a brain cyst— Still, he trudges on, Like a scapegoat in its farcical, ineffable glee— Why are you telling me To manufacture and market my life Like an indulgent, indulged on swine Conforming to the convention, Supporting units of straight edges
What in this straight-edged maelstrom Can help the creative pneuma To thrive in a place so confining and restricting And detrimental to discoveries, breakthroughs, Spiritual sustenance?