numb

Creator of my jail.

I am.

Constantly.

Cold iron bars of fear forged from expectations, welded into a rigid grid of misplaced responsibilty, bolted into thick walls of a little square room, meticioulously built, one day after the next, as we brick ourselves in.

Confined to a daily dose of all that is possible.

For breakfast.

Lunch.

Supper.

That relentless routine.

Woken.

But not.

To stare at a wall.

A bed.

A basin.

The same beige clothes.

The same bland food.

The same uniformed people.

Jailers.

Locking.

Always locking.

Myself.

In.

A bond to be paid.

Food to be served.

People dependant.

Promises made.

Groveling.

Dirty empty hand.

Broken bitten nails.

Bowed head.

And you get up.

And you walk the yard.

Eat without tasting.

Sleep without dreaming.

Comply.

Conform.

Continue.

Until you die.

Numb.

Numb is better.

In numb there is no hope.

No desperate attempt to escape.

Numb.

Until you die.

And then you’re born.

Again.

From dust to dust.

Again.

Cold iron bars of fear forged from expectations.

Welded into a rigid grid of misplaced responsibilty.

Bolted into thick walls of a little square room.

Meticioulously built.

One day after the next.

With mine own hands.

Again.

Again.

Again.

4 thoughts on “numb

  1. Wow, wow and wow!! Beau!! Just keep it up and give us more to ponder!!!!
    Sent via my BlackBerry from Vodacom – let your email find you!

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