Resentment is like a play in three acts,
A level of restriction so tall and so wide that the tools don’t exist to conquer it.
Each day I’m sick of passing the same old problems,
Same old people,
Same old ideals.
To shake off these chains, to let that which binds, set free,
Forever trapped inside existentiality,
The root of all my philosophical problems,
A tightened tragedy for all to see.
I see it coming, I do; gliding through the night,
Binding that which allows consciousness to flutter and suffocating it in the dark.
Desperation – it’s all subpar. Every word wrought in glory, reflecting the glow of the moon.
Yet still I fight it, making a meaning more than there ever has been.
For me, it’s not pride, it’s not guts – there is no glory, no reward.
Just a need to expel that which drives me, in the hope I can become something more,
Driven by a mere need to create, to set free and to smash the shackles that hold it down.
And to belong to someone.