When life feels like it’s become an intruder,
like it’s holding a knife to your throat,
when wonder, curiosity and discovery,
are replaced by survival, survival and survival,
when the happiest part of your day is isolation,
perhaps it’s time to lift the veil,
and wake up to the reality,
of this prison I’ve accepted,
perhaps I was it’s architect all along.
When breathing feels like it needs permission,
when you can’t tolerate tolerance,
this despicable hijacking of a word,
that now means;
accepting mock, sneer, envy, greed, theft,
dishonesty, lying, cheating, and hatred,
then I am the architect.
If I feel all this, there’s hope yet.
I’d be worried my hands could no longer help,
if I didn’t feel a thing,
if I were numb and accepted,
or didn’t even know the knife was there.
Perhaps it’s much simpler,
and I’m just aching for proof,
yes, men also ache for proof.