You are what you profess to be
This society, it's sick
Roots festered with the oppression of expression
Roots rotten through, every branch a brothel of corrosive corruption
Society is as an illusion
God is an anti-depressant
Whimsical are daydreams
But they're not your daydreams
They wanted financial security, a new car
They wanted a couple of kids, maybe a cat or dog
They wanted an end to the war, they wanted an end to every war
They wanted to sit at the table reading the newspaper
They wanted to have pin-up wives and kids who ran amuck outside
They wanted a white picket fence and a manicured lawn
Do you even know what you want? Have you figured it out?
Do you want someone else's dream?
You are what you profess to be
This society, it's sick
(31 August 2015, Poetry Writing Assignment)
YOU ARE READING
An Aged, Bitter Collection of Poetry, Prose, & Papers
PoetryThere once was a sad girl, not that long ago, in a kingdom not so far away. Perhaps a glance into her somber scribbles might help you on your quest to scribble for yourself.
