Flowers on a coffin

Why do people try and mask what’s real. There’s an emptiness inside them Which just wallows under the surface. It never comes to light. Instead it shall sit there in the darkness, rotting and growing. Cancers taking their souls away, and never allowing themselves to feel good again. About life, love and happiness. No one is allowed to find out for themselves, What should be real and what is just a masquerade, produced by the faithless to cover their fears, Sunshine on shadow, as flowers on a coffin. Giving the darkness a false light, and their own person, a sense of false security. A misdirected vision of what’s right and wrong fills us all. A children’s fairy tail and a shield to pain. Why not let these fears rise, so they may be cured and acknowledge what lies within us all. A hope and a beauty, more real than they. Those same hypocrites on the committee of the clouds, which tell us the way we should live our lives, and then do everything they can to turn us away and screw us up in our efforts in to live our dreams, In a life not perfect, just bareable. None will stand up to these cretins, and express what we all feel inside, but don’t understand. A gnawing fear of forever and tomorrow, a despair at everything and everyone. So intolerable, in it’s bleak endlessness A deep wound in our souls, tearing us apart, And away from our friends, who suffer the same ailment The creator of envy harshly dividing us all. Everything wrong within us and around us is brought up to be seen by all, as if with neon lights. And then any effort at defending our individuality would be crushed with a turn of the page. People will never love what they have, yet only what they don’t. That one step closer to perfection and all it’s aggressive innocence, Hovering just around he corner, ready to pounce Their own passive voice and outcry at the craziness knocked back in their face. Always wrong, pathetic and tired, never good enough. There is no courage, no will to try and fight the pretence that all is good and life is wonderful. The view presented when you look to history and the stars, marred by the glossy pictures and never-ending babble. Confusion of direction, the corruption which is conformation. Opportunities only open to the idiots. Those that buy into this plan of fools and production of manikins without a thought in their head, of the true beauty and wonder that lies just below the surface, just begging to be allowed to admit it exists. To be believed as real, and accepted by themselves, for who they are, not what they could be, then everything could, should, and would be all right. Written October 18th, 2001 © on Oct 17 2001 06:35 PM PST   0 • 9