Something within me balks
When I pick up the pen.
When I pick up the pen.
The walls inside tremble at its stroke,
And I tremble with them.
And I tremble with them.
Mightier than the sword indeed,
For what sword could free me from myself?
For what sword could free me from myself?
But freedom chills,
And I would somehow sooner remain bound,
And I would somehow sooner remain bound,
Caught up in the monotonous lies
I've woven of my life.
I've woven of my life.
But still I write, my fingers dancing,
Mixing metaphors and finding ways
Mixing metaphors and finding ways
To convince myself that freedom
Is the better life by far.
Is the better life by far.
So still I write.
No comments:
Post a Comment