Story of My Life
by: myself

Vivid thoughts becoming vivid images
Tormenting me with dreams of pleasure but
Bringing only pain at the thought of what i do not have
Pleasure only coming in moments, minutes, sometimes.....in blessed hours.

I write with no avail, words fail me as I hold a pen
Wanting to write the essence of my soul but can not
Convey the torment of love that haunts my heart
Interested in all things that surround her, yet it is all dulled by
Perfessionalism.
A uniform, binding me to a life style I choose but in truth
Had no other choice..
Living in a room, four walls bare, beds same as before
But now wood, enstead of metal,
Crucifing me.
Trapped by my own free will.
Bowing down to a structure of order that is truely
Chaotic.

I place my pen upon the table, identical to so many
Made for the Order I so unwanting serve
My identity screams for release. It yearns to
Rip the perfectly pressed shirt away from my
Chest.
To reveal the story of my flesh.
Flesh painted with ink in pain.
A ritual of individualism.
My ritual, duplicate of the ones that came before.
Yet unique in its essence.
Everytime, all times, only mine.
A symphony of pain to dull the
Story of my life.