This thought is just another tree in a forest of problems
So I'll cut it all down, I'll burn this forest to the ground
Make it so I no longer have to think
So my brain can finally melt away
We can start anew
With all this extra lumber
Build a whole new town
One with a little less corruption
With a little less thought
More conformity
Because what broke me was not acting the part

Tonight's the night I take a chance,
A risk greater than the high school dance,
But dare I try, after this stanza
I'll stop firing my rhyming phaser,

I've always been one for lesser liberties,
Not unlike your favourite celebrities,
Such as the right to whistle my merry song,
On those warm summer days that drag out too lon-
No not that! Why can't I seem to break,
That longing for order, could my values be fake?

I'm a rebel, not a conformist of society,
I'm one for a cider not a hot cup of tea,
Notice that I'm getting better all the time,
Those lines only made up a half rhyme,

I'll force myself to ruin this pattern that I'm in,
Perhaps a subtle cuss will do: "Friggin'!",
That didn't seem to work I guess this is a sham,
Perhaps its inevitable that all poetry should rhyme...

Wait a second...

The sheep minded
Elevate ignorance
To celebrate
Their own mundaneness

Claim this enslavement
Is natural
That the moral
Shun the strays
Who walk in
Diverging ways

Cling to status symbols
And fashion trends

Their mind bends
To fit their servile situation

Praising the nation
Instead of humanity

Consumers not real creators
Products not innovators

Digesting stupidity
And spitting the same
Uniformed madness
Right back at me
And that is why
I love working nights

It's just a thing.
An idea.
Washing up on the shores.
Of oblivion.
As the surf presses forth.
Does this enigma grow limbs.
Tearing away from the stream of consciousness there of.
A schism indeed.
For it is hastily trying to retrace what was inevitably.
Washed away.
Gasping.
Fighting for a right to.
Be.
And as it does in all youth.
A plague of indecisive arrogance pollutes the well.
This gyser of melevolant guile.
Spew forth facts.
For living is to conform.
Assimilate.
Render the barcode.
As the sewage of self depletes upon the masses.
Who needs oceans.
When we are all dying to drown.
In ignorance.

CONFORMITY kills CURIOSITY

Just a little off the top.
Drawin' a dotted line
'round the skull
takin' your shears
just above the ear.

Cuttin' a close crop.
Burrowin' into the skin this time
'round the skull
now your clippers
smilin' so chipper.

Leavin' a head clean smooth.
Whistlin' at a near-finished work
'round the skull
peelin' back the skin
bravin' a peek within.

Grabbin' that comb with its fine tooth.
Unfurlin' that pink mass of quirk
'round the skull
eyein' where tendrils append
trimmin' the dead ends.