and this is what I get
No judgements from me. My emotions refuse to listen to my logic. This is How I Feel, not what I think.
Comfort Zone
It's so easy, isn't it
a quick breath of the icy air of spring,
cold on my skin
then back to the comfort zone,
a stone, pulling a blanket of earth over me.
Funny, the only time men do that
is the last time they lay down.
Then again, a stone can't dance.
It's easier to defend familiar territory,
even if it is full of demons and fire.
The pain and the fear
become soothing in time,
the cool wind of freedom
fading behind everyday routine.
The lash on my back may not be pleasant,
but it's consistent.
When the scars get thick enough,
it's back to being stone.
Perhaps if I stop screaming
it won't be fun anymore -
Not that that's ever worked before.
My demons have their own agenda,
I'm just a prop in the play.
And what of you, neighbor?
You thought no one was watching,
but I saw you slip your chains,
saw a shallow breath of the cool spring air,
redolent with peace
raise goosebumps on your raw, flayed skin.
Was it freedom's strangeness that chased you
back to your cage?
When you saw that the meal was not
hot coals again,
did you run in fear
from picking up your spoon and supping?
Back to our adjoining cages.
Back to our comfort zones.
Those bars are strong and thick,
we should know, we built them.
Strong enough to stop the scourges, the flails
and of course, to stop the cold spring breeze,
free of the smells of brimstone and blood,
so strange in our noses.
Time wounds all heels, just ask Achilles
and what use virtue in this forsaken place?
Still, our eyes are fixed on the same door,
the same path, long and hard,
leading from darkness into light.
Perhaps with patience, with timing, with will,
we can both escape this
terrible
comfort zone.
Comfort Zone
It's so easy, isn't it
a quick breath of the icy air of spring,
cold on my skin
then back to the comfort zone,
a stone, pulling a blanket of earth over me.
Funny, the only time men do that
is the last time they lay down.
Then again, a stone can't dance.
It's easier to defend familiar territory,
even if it is full of demons and fire.
The pain and the fear
become soothing in time,
the cool wind of freedom
fading behind everyday routine.
The lash on my back may not be pleasant,
but it's consistent.
When the scars get thick enough,
it's back to being stone.
Perhaps if I stop screaming
it won't be fun anymore -
Not that that's ever worked before.
My demons have their own agenda,
I'm just a prop in the play.
And what of you, neighbor?
You thought no one was watching,
but I saw you slip your chains,
saw a shallow breath of the cool spring air,
redolent with peace
raise goosebumps on your raw, flayed skin.
Was it freedom's strangeness that chased you
back to your cage?
When you saw that the meal was not
hot coals again,
did you run in fear
from picking up your spoon and supping?
Back to our adjoining cages.
Back to our comfort zones.
Those bars are strong and thick,
we should know, we built them.
Strong enough to stop the scourges, the flails
and of course, to stop the cold spring breeze,
free of the smells of brimstone and blood,
so strange in our noses.
Time wounds all heels, just ask Achilles
and what use virtue in this forsaken place?
Still, our eyes are fixed on the same door,
the same path, long and hard,
leading from darkness into light.
Perhaps with patience, with timing, with will,
we can both escape this
terrible
comfort zone.