All this talk about freedom,
but I’ve never found it,
not in religion or reckless
hedonism, one pricks me
with scruples, the other
inundates me with guilt.
I’m not righteous and will
never be, no matter what
I do or think, but am I secretly in
love with the very things
that make me miserable?
There are some issues too
difficult to confront,
and some answers too
terrifying to know.
I’ve never experienced a
sense of wonder that lasts,
perhaps something ephemeral
that lasted a season,
but never an absolute
conviction of being liberated,
a strong purpose that
urges me towards beauty,
I flit between angst and ache,
knowing that’s no way to live,
I suppress the pain I need to
look at, with all its imperfections
and harrowing aspects,
and slowly kill myself
by running away from something
that threatens to consume me
and spit out my bones.
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