We are afraid of freedom,
of newness, of unpredictability
of owning the lives that we have been given.
So we dress ourselves everyday,
properly readying our children
for the soul-crushing, harrowing
too many hours of well presented bullsh*t,
the remnants of the suffering that we choked on.
No one knew better.
No one knows better.
What else kills our creativity
if not routine?
We give hours, days, years
of our lives,
pacifying the defiance
threatening to burst out of our chests,
smouldering the fire in our hearts,
reducing it to the dull, lulling
miserable noise that dictates our existence.
Our friends lose their minds,
end their lives,
forget who they are
for the approval that only ink and paper
Why isn’t anyone saying anything?
But we sit here,
losing all our remaining individuality
Our instincts probably have a few protests,
but we wake up every other weekday,
to dutifully iron our prison uniforms.
We serve our sentences
and join the rest of the world,
slaving away, rotting behind a desk
with no one to tell us that we got played.
Society never keeps its promises.
Our friends went nuts for nothing,
died for nothing.
It was only school.
It’s only school.
AKA The Ink magician. I’m Superwoman and chocolate is my kryptonite.