Getting too old before your bloom, Saving the world before your room, It isn’t bold. It is escapism, A self-constructed prison.
Sometimes we must improvise, Colonise the unknown woods, Pretend we’re doing good, Our orders misunderstood. “The savages were animals, sir. I only remember a blur. I saw no women and children Only games that were forbidden”
But we awake from weakness For the bleakness’ sake. For we see it all around Though in mud we have been drowned. We look at our own skins, Pink like that of pigs, Thick and hard, Slippery lard, Teeth scarred. As we bite through our own flesh, As we write our own tests, Mistakingly obsessed In our hazy stare, The perfect poem waits somewhere. The impatient soul gains weight and wear. And somehow, like a vow, In the broken vigour, In the senseless rigour, Wow, perfection has been triggered now.