It is lonely
and the sobering confusion
looms and suffocates
any thread of reasoning
I cling onto to make sense
of a world in chaos.
To cope, to understand,
to explain, to clarify is beyond
the realm of an experience still
forming, most likely to morph
into monstrous hatred.
Entrenched in the land of freedom,
ideas and feelings are enraged.
Hollowed almost violently,
mired in events
bigger than self.
Uneasy and depressed.
Not having an answer to
a world; thirsty. Filled
with torrents of questions
I need to bury myself
in a novel. Be lost in its alleys.
Pausing now and then to enjoy the view.
An elastic sentence, metamorphic.
Opening up new angles. To let the light in.
Nowhere to hide. No refuge, no excuse.
The benefit of doubt is bankrupted.
I was born to the wrong clan, ideology.
Facing the world is deadly.
Living as a coward prolongs hell.
The only option is
to shut up and hope for new winds.
Balancing the bills keeps us distracted.
The job keeps us occupied.
Where it matters the most, I have hope.
The elites may
but it is the daily, the small talk, that exhausts.
Eventually crushing the dream to belong.