What is it, I dare ask, that seperates us from who we really are?
What sick blade bores down on the human mind,
splitting it in two:
One half is preserved as a fettered mass,
restrained and enslaved with the urge to make people happy.
The other half is bound by a more austere hand,
painfully held back to refrain one from speaking.
The gossamer perspective of the human eye, alas,
cannot penetrate the dreaded barrier:
Like a dragon and his prisoner,
the vain princess may squirm and yet never break free
from the clutches that are the eyes in the audience,
the scornful gazes that come to petrify one's thoughts,
urging them in another direction.
Insidious chains, wrapping around the climax,
blocking the view of an afterthought,
until of course it is too late.
Introspection is always such a painful pursuit:
Reflecting on what one always does, says, and thinks.
But what do you think now?
What half of the mine will you sacrifice your loyalty to?
The dimming clog of the stereotype,
or the hidden face of individuality?
Adding your comment: