Unread & Unsaid

I live in a world of corruption and debauchery painted pretty for public consumption. I watch the people toddle along with society because they don’t otherwise know how to function. I bite my tongue and hold my words; explaining would take a relative eternity. I’m a black-sheep among strangers, aware everyone has an insecurity (or three.)

I often question my identity– to get by, their must be masking. Never-mind it’s the same set of questions that everyone else has been asking;

Who am I?

Who do I want to be as the little fish in a big pond?

How do I make it through without trying to abscond?

If thought is power, then why aren’t I where I want to be?

Can we accurately say the only obstacle has been me?

For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction, but no one said anything about assured satisfaction. “Welcome to the Real World," become the words we learn to dread, "decided for yourself; we’re alive until we’re dead” remains the part usually left unread and unsaid.

|| another-proser ||