Ego
Afraid of some unknown,
Sheltered beyond the naked eye.
Terrified of some truth,
Hidden by angels who lie.
To know that mortality is finite,
Is to hear the haunting whispers of
the ground.
To feel the stains of mistakes
burning you,
Is to be more human than one could
hope.
We revolve on an axis,
Spinning round till’ we meet our destiny.
Like the ceiling fan fixated above
A boy filled with tear-stained
dreams.
All we are is imperfect goblins,
Scurrying about for jewels and
grandeur.
Yet we keep up a pretense of
elegance.
Why, I wonder, do we need to look
glamorous?
Why are there venomous voices in my
mind,
Likening me to some sick,
plague-ridden corpse?
Why do all those living affix me with
terrible looks,
As though I am a rat, crawled up from
a dank sewer?
And so, the influence takes hold,
Like the firm grip of fate on one's
life.
How I adorn myself, how I speak,
How I walk down a hallway.
It feels so scary, this present.
Tears are so frequent, I’ve
constructed a swimming pool.
The future, the bully, so cruel,
So heavy, it pulls me to the bottom
of the pool.
If I am meant to be thrilled,
Where is the excitement?
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