I'm so tired
of staying up late worrying about some useless due date,
sighing in relief when I finish that essay I sped-wrote at three in the morning,
leaving me groaning and moaning the next day, eyes barely awake,
robotic movements taking over my body, screeching to be let free.
Scrambling over friends, enemies, strangers
a competition to get into the best possible institution so we can build for ourselves a life of many fortunes.
Oh, what a lie.
I don't want to just go through the motions.
Don't you ever get tired of all that? Don't you want a revelation? Instead of
listening to all these preachers, having to sit in these pews, taking it all in
without question.
Are we sitting in a dungeon or a lesson?
The capacity for creativity is shrunk to a size so minuscule, it feels as if all the artists are dead,
all of us forcibly defined
by some scratches and splotches on a page.
And I come home every day,
bones tired and spirit disheartened,
feeling as if my colourful mind has blackened,
wishing for a change
or escape.
