I find that I’m more capable
of standing firmly on foundations
constructed of my own accord,
not collected through donation.

In conversations worth a damn,
the kind that sink beneath the surface,
I find that I am best aligned
with those who don’t attend the circus.

Clowns in painted faces
putting on the day’s performance.
Lions housed in cages,
chained and broken for enjoyment.

Then a lion bites their keeper,
breaking free from the façade
realizing death is better than
his void existence in slow rot.

In a world of hollow stages
and vapid roles one can partake in,
be the lion not worth taming;
be the rebel; be forsaken.