Thursday, November 3, 2016

bury, pretend, forget

the social life is a masquerade
where we piece together our costumes
in fogged mirrors, blurred reflections,
for people whose strange faces are pixelated,
their mouths make noises that are familiar
but not really understood,  launching
empty vessels into one-ear-out-the-next
with no give or take, only meaningless
diplomatic voyages to save reputation,
suppressing the desire to express a true emotion
out of fear of breaking our chains,
they keep us connected- and enslaved,
better to comply than to become a

these tales are written in hard cover books,
we' bind each other to these pages,
trapping ourselves into
nonsensical, one-dimensional characters,
hypocritical by nature,
diluting any personal dialogue
with borrowed rhetoric,
it becomes us inside-and-out
making it easier to accept our roles
rather than accepting our
mental prisons,
life behind bars without
checking if cell door was ever locked,
afraid of the possibility it never was

the unfathomable horror of letting go

it's contagious,
it spreads its introverted madness
crippling the spirited, suffocating the boisterous,
unaware of its source- even the sickness itself,
the healers assigned to help are only trained
to return the sickly to their treadmills,
not to find the antidote, not to
rid people of the contagion,
just stooges sick with the same disease,
strengthening it with ignorance,
letting it amass so everyone is infected,
where being healed is to become sick,
making the side-effect of the cure-
our greatest-inherent, instinctual fear

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