Something iconic long gone
Maybe never there
Always told don't stare
But my icon, now that's rare
It's slipping and the thoughts flee
What's a poem if the words aren't charity
Fuck the rhyme scheme all it does is cheapen
Criss cross words and still fall short
It's my icon, I've found
It's being stuck in a box and that box
is the escape from itself.
Maybe the box is myself
Me stuck in me stuck in myself
It's the fear we all have, us being our box
We are all squares going nowhere,
quoting the Descendents
But the saddest omnipresence is ourself.
