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The Hole
The hole at the corner of the room,
Dark and inconspicous,
But it's still there,
Home to little creatures,
Where imagination and reality coexist,
Where questions seize to exist,
Where hypothesis are left alone in peace,
And time would freeze,
As they lay in there, tired,
Tired of questioning their existence,
Tired of having to prove themselves time and again,
Tired of listening to laws that restrain them,
To a particular set of rules and procedures,
Of validating their own identity,
But aren't we all tired?
Tired of judging those things we would do ourselves?
Tired of that "sense of security" that our identity gives us,
Only for us to doubt even more,
Those useless worries about us being "pure"
But really, what are we?
Probably mere perception,
Probably by a set of expectations,
That comes crashing down when we are told we aren't,
And maybe that's why we go crawling back,
Into that hole at the corner of the room,
Finally resting in peace
© amyd
Dark and inconspicous,
But it's still there,
Home to little creatures,
Where imagination and reality coexist,
Where questions seize to exist,
Where hypothesis are left alone in peace,
And time would freeze,
As they lay in there, tired,
Tired of questioning their existence,
Tired of having to prove themselves time and again,
Tired of listening to laws that restrain them,
To a particular set of rules and procedures,
Of validating their own identity,
But aren't we all tired?
Tired of judging those things we would do ourselves?
Tired of that "sense of security" that our identity gives us,
Only for us to doubt even more,
Those useless worries about us being "pure"
But really, what are we?
Probably mere perception,
Probably by a set of expectations,
That comes crashing down when we are told we aren't,
And maybe that's why we go crawling back,
Into that hole at the corner of the room,
Finally resting in peace
© amyd
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