Almost

As the juices pound against the confines; of that which is he Neither escape nor point of release is apparent; there are only but small trickles. And it sits inside the confines of the illusions; amongst the too, too many. Expression is restricted to hopeful displays of intellect; often construed only as clever. Through a window of opportunity comes; a small flow of outpouring; Written word formed in rhyme; abstract stories provoking ones mind; Mere overflow of expression; the matter recovered from a skimming. And the depths of creativity remain untapped; as opportunity slips by. Plucking at the strings of melody even then; only potentiality emerges; And the curse of meritocracy ever pollutes; as hope fades into acceptance. Needles pierce the hand; much like nails; and life crescendos to its climax. Soon gone and yes soon forgotten; color it pale; so as to demonstrate the bright