It can feel extremely frustrating to be told you're free, yet to feel the chains weighing you down, to tie you down with knots of love. To clip your wings. Like a pressure that keeps me underwater, I only dream of a sip of fresh air. They nurture you, only to release a bird with no wings, an angel that can't fly. They call them fallen angels. Like a faded out tattoo, my perplexity has distorted out of context. The devil was disobedient once, and for that reason, we are told to fear him. For that reason, are we then the same if not worse? The creator's son was angry once, yet he is revered for it.
Those who suffer serve to give faith to others. Those who suffer are left with none of their own.
With every step I take, I feel myself getting angrier, yet being told I am wrong for it. Though it can't be seen, they're foul criticism has fallen on deaf ears. With every minute passing, the knots undo. My fault, my mind says. But how good it must feel to fly, in turn I say. The plain walls yell at me, how could I think such thoughts. With what wings you idiot? They must be laughing now. A bird with no wings can't fly and a broken vase can't be fixed.
The chains that tie me to the world taunt me with every step I take. I carve my fingers into them, digging them out of the earth. I dig, like a dog searching for a bone. I dig until my fingers bleed, begging for me to stop. I please them as I find it to be futile. Light from outside blinds me as I make eye contact with the slowly burning fire. I try to hold it in my hands like a child's dream only for it to die out. The loud world outside serves to mock because if I yelled, no one would hear, and if someone in turn yelled, I wouldn't hear a thing. No one listens, not unless you're someone worth the time.
Outside, a man walks the streets alone. He walks like the whole weight of the world lay on his shoulders, crumbling with every step taken. Like at any moment he'll fall for the earth to devour him. He yells but no one listens. I dig, because I do. But of course the chains don't exist, they're just a figment of the imagination, analogies, just like everything else we use to explain the things we don't understand, like the knots of love I'll never reach, they were always buried too deep down.
I'd beg anyone to love me, but not like this.
