A lie, so intricately spun
it might just fool anyone.
Except for those unassuming.
The foul stench of those defining
the rules next to which we must run.
The scent, in basics is a simple one.
Hypocrisy, the smell of the soul when it's dying.
We run, we run, we run.
For what, we shall never know.
They tell us it's exactly what we need.
It's fun, it's fun, it's fun.
A lie; we reap what we sow.
A great tree without truth, all grown from a seed.
This poem was done for an English assignment this year. We were supposed to write in a certain format of a sonnet, I forget the name.
©Brett Kesler 2009
No comments:
Post a Comment