Enter

Bored, Anxious

For everything my mind refuses.

I kick back and fight the rush,

And I begin.

Do I make a shelf for my wooden swords

Or do I bear them quietly with my crumbling silhouette?

 

Yea, I did the beat thing,

And I didn’t have a clue what it was.

Yea, I gave up on a lot of things once I hit the falls of New York,

But then again, who didn’t?

 

I am of an age

Where I am told by all norms to explode

To change

And revel in differences

And yet I am quiet

I am old

 

I have spent five years

An inmate of this asylum

And with this subliminal challenge to self to remain

Un

A faux pas of force

 

I cry with this sentimental anxious boredom.