Sad But Just

Let me go! 
Not in the captive sense, but in the exploratory. 
The world is your oyster when the kid in front of you runs out of quarters. 
I think his dad is rich though... (time ticks by)
It's fine, he looks happy and I'm not in a hurry.
It never rains when I want it to either,
and this city is far too square to take any shortcuts.

Let me go, 
pass the awkwardly aggressive windows buzzing with neon,
toward the gum spot stained, gaseous, osmosis zone. 
The imperfections in the concrete leave behind spots of mirror, 
for all of our worst angles to take center stage.
I would go out more, only my face is starting to bloat,
and my hair seems to thin with the wind. 

Opinionated voices echo against skull cap and marrow,
like Plato professing in his cave, 
only this time they mock me:

The amount of attention we receive varies by the severity of methods of torture. As far as our writing goes, I would say we're at a verbal abuse level, hoping to make it all the way to iron maiden, and eventually; drawn and quartered. It goes with out saying that the concept and act of existing, leads even the most kingly of souls, to experience general mundanity and torture. It's the every day decrees and happenings that make it all worth something. Are we ready to make decrees? Or are we trying to make sense of our penniless pockets?

Opinionated voices echo against soft tissue and colorless matter,
like a not-yet-born who cries a few moments too early.
Only this time I'm too embarrassed to reply.

I dream of dangled grapes and bay window seating,
overlooking a windswept summer valley 
that pushes the sounds of lonely beaches through the canopies. 
But I settle for a three day water cleanse and an afternoon shit,
watching a recording of a tree through a window. 
It is lonely but at least my water's filtered.
It is quiet which is quite unusual nowadays. 

I was once told to never fear being in solitary, 
that solitude is the nature of Gods. 
That could not be more wrong.
As possibly the most obvious thing in the history of the world,
is how much the God's couldn't stand being alone.
Us lonesome readers and accompanied drinkers
are all divine until we get a paper cut and lose the memory of our omnipotence.  

Sad But Just.