Poem.

Kreesha, you make me feel guilty if I'm not posting something to amuse you at least once every two days. Probably a good thing. <3
I'm digging through all my old files looking for gold to post, and I'm not finding much. The following is a poem I wrote maybe six months ago. It is most imperfect, but what the hey, it's some filler.

The world around is dull and bleak,
Monotony, week after week.
Painted in dark browns and grays,
Until we scream within our days,
But striving, we cannot break free,
Because none among us truly see,
That to be free we break the mould,
Give up that we crave to hold,
Pass over ways to turn the knife,
And in doing, we give up our life.
Our place among the status quo,
Where do we turn? Where do we go?
When all we know is ripped to shreds,
And all we want in in our heads.
With possession gone, with freedom ours,
We have no way to spend our hours,
Save looking at our very souls,
Freed from the depths of craving's holes,
But laid bare, they writhe and cry
"How dare you free us from our sty!"
In truth, the soul is quite content,
To live in hells to which it's sent,
Even going insofar,
As to love the things that scar,
And freedom, though sought by all,
Is not beyond corruption's call,
And though we claim to find ourselves,
We cannot escape our own shelves,
And every act of self-confession,
Is merely more hints of obsession.