SelfAware

It’s a twisted sense of entitlement that leaves us in these caves of ignorance. That holds us in these binds of lies and keeps us from what’s inside all of us. How can we live in such detached agony? To live in the shadows of times that should have ended with the beginning of color blind. Lost in time with a lead in conservative. When sex and drugs and vulgarity shine, shouldn’t these old limits have died? A way to live is to be free of binds, no holds to bar the ideas in ones mind. Wishing for a way to escape real life? What if the right to be who you are made real life a fantasy? Or is it even an argument of right? I tangle in my mind over what’s acceptable, what’s presentable, what’s me. Am I even a fraction of who I could be? Do I give myself these limits to save me? And who am I protecting, myself by not being me? What sense is the mind-numbing cruelty I give to the blossoms in my mind of a future of ecstasy? That’s not who I want to be. A creature trapped inside a machine. Becoming self-aware or finally admitting that the person in the mirror is me? I wish she was a creature of pure impulsory. Jumping the gun and following gut instincts. Dancing in the streets for no reason or rhyme. No need to shy from the child inside. To glow in the light of a nova. Die fighting or live dying? An oxymoron is not worth the irony.