fauxcroft

Another day begins

And I am right back at it again,

It’s back to the grind

The torment of the mind,

As though it’s all we are defined as

As if it’s the sum of all our parts,

This containment of self

That we seem unable to break free of,

And that limits our hopes and dreams

That reduces our ambitions,

Identifying our talent in work terms

Rather than in creativity in lifestyle,

We are our own gaoler keeping us

Locked up in our taught and self made cage,

That becomes our anaesthetic

Which then stifles out passion and rage.