Untitled 4.9.2008

If doors were meant to be open, they wouldn't have locks;
If windows were cleaner, we could see that it's greener on the other side,
but through the filth and the grime,
it just looks depressing.
I was dismal ; I was shackled to walls that demanded my entire attention,
but now I'm free,
or would be if not for my brain ;
it remembers the chains,
and feels obligation to repaint the walls that are bleeding.
I am no one's morphine ; my blood is no quick fix.
If not for this shell, I'd feel great.
If not for this plethora of neural connections,
I could sleep without thinking.
Dreams dissolve too easily into reality.
There's a hill between me and the objects of my affection,
and I have no motivation.
Human nature besets me at every turn,
and I cannot escape my urges ; I cannot escape their thirst or hunger,
or this cloud of melancholy that hangs before my eyes.
If only the windows were cleaner,
I could view my prize and delight in the game,
but the filth and the grime realign the images
into something I cannot desire to claim.

-fin