Of Any Consequence?

If that’s not the case, then she should be more honest.
But to say she would quit!
Not to understand her apprehension of continuance
This is what she wants people to know.

But my cynicism grew, I knew not where from
Possibly growing.
An adult reaction to my youthful optimism.
Entirely self-aware though.
This is not the gradual change that is missed,
By the untrained eye of a worker.
This is the gradual change of a listless figure
Knowing all that needs to be known, but forcing it down.
To understand the recession.
To figure out the taxes.
To rely on the love of the cared for girl,
That wearies of the uncaring tone.

It is not my fault that I am inconsiderate for
This part of childhood drags on my hand.
“Be carefull, you’ll make me trip!”
Is it not enough that I tire of Christmas.
Do I not try of carry you occasionally?
I make a damned effort in accommodating
The responsibilities.

Most of all the optimism’s gone.
Belief in the good of all that is bad
The pure in the pitiful, the desire to smile.
And when the smile grows thin and used,
By the reinforcement of the choice to choose,
When in truth it’s the happiness of an ignorant bliss
Of a carefree life, still happy and oppressed.

No Skimpole syndrome, this is not the way
But to still rely.
On a time when knowing that you need not know
But rest sleepily on the state’s bosom;
Soft, warm, comforting.
Gives you life. It takes it too.
No choice for me. It clouds the judgement,
Re-aligns your purpose, adding consequential consideration.
All that should remain is a thought of oneself
Let the higher power guide others.

Still today we are free, alas.
To be ourselves?
An individual in the mass. Dress your way,
For I believe someone of similar style approaches
He appears in flat-cap, but goes up
As you go down.
And where has this freedom got me?
I have compromised my life, I fear.
For when I say that a beautiful actress decides to quit,
I say it is because she is ignorant.

When I have to pick from the endless list
I am reduced to an angry adult mess.

An independent mind? For what will that give?
To confuse oneself in a growing throng
Of lies,
Attempts
To make
A truth. The Pravda of a world that knows just false.
So as you live sweet blissful love
With a lover in love, to bleed and give
With the cracked knuckles of a wintry hand,
And the fiery burn of an irritable bowel,
Please know that it will cost you
The essence of that young sweetness
That falters not at bad
But crumbles under growth.