To be an AdultRepress your thoughts, hold your tongue
as if it were glass;
Fake your words, mince your thoughts -
are they your own? It doesn't matter.
That's what it means to be an adult, right?
What it means to grow up?
Filters, filters, filters...
Blocking those thoughts which are 'wrong',
like a fictional distopia made real.
Are we not puppets of our own society?
Puppets to the will of others?
Stopping our speech, halting our minds,
as we stray from ourselves, but all for survival.
But not in our minds, you and I,
Not in our thoughts and our private talks...
That's right, isn't it? We're the only ones not stuck in a rut?
We're the only ones special to this?
But to change your mind, change your ways, change yourself...
How can we know us now from us then,
If the original us is permanently different?
Are we really we,
Or tools of society, tricked to be free?
My EverythingMy everything is nothing to myself;
Your nothing is all I can ever feel.
To observe your whole self upon my shelf,
I live for thee though I surely unreal.
Your world, it beckons! A pantomime true.
Pain, toil, abuse, lackluster suits of old,
The pitfall, as thou describes, was due.
A trap too soon, in which I will soon fold.
...Yet again, a miracle, yourself is.
That smile, that walk, that yearning which you talk.
Lift your heart up proud, you wond'rous miss,
Nothing you do can change how I still walk.
As my heart is now what it should not be,
Fallen in love with a fair maiden, thee.
Breath and DeathThe opposite of breath
Surely is death,
As the man's life
Was taken with the knife.
Looking for a bite
He tread through the night,
But all that he found
Was his burial ground.
Soundly he was sleeping,
No laughing nor weeping,
When in came a man,
Blade brandished in hand.
He did not deserve it,
Yet life be so unfit,
For the man in the hood
Is Death, misunderstood.
Subject 30I wake up in a room of steel square, large. A chill in the air forces synthetic goosebumps pores, of a sort, to release pressure, and all over my steel, smooth, bare skin. I catch my sight on The Eye; the black hole that seems to consume the room. Just an orb on the ceiling, I say to myself. It shouts out voices that I do not recognize; voices of the White Jackets. The silver-grey walls of steel shine in the light of a single white fixture in the center of the ceiling, which makes this room a box of metal. Seams along panels of the floor and walls indicate maneuverability of the most complex kind. And now, in the center of it all, a single wall with a bull's eye slides up as a row of tiles move out a couple feet in front of me.
I am addressed as a number - "Subject 29. Diagnostics check..." Numbers run in my head, through my eyes. I see them, but don't understand them. I fear them. They search for something, but I don't know what to give them. I just don't know