By Bethany Reams, 2014
It is always within
That the without
cannot explain.
There’s a system,
you see,
Its cogs and its pistons,
which routinise
and mechanise men.
Spirits torn
And bodies broken,
all to obtain
perfection,
when perfect men turn around
and descend the ladder again
for hopelessness.
Domesticated
In a cage of fear,
when we were born
to be wild,
behind glass that we could break
with a breath,
if we would just breathe,
would shatter with a word,
if we would but speak.
And we seldom wonder,
for we have always been told
we are the choosers.
We seldom wonder at anything
but these skin and bones.
Content to do as we’re told,
It all makes sense,
But these songs
keep rising
from our mouths,
Rising from the deepest place,
songs the world has never heard,
had never planned us to sing.
And we start to wonder,
in that moment,
if this skin is just a a suit,
if the race we’re running
is a ruse to keep us
from stopping and wondering,
if the strange pulse
we feel in our veins is
more than blood,
but spirit.
depthofpoetry 