Buried Alive
There are scratches on my coffin of life
As I struggle to break free from being buried alive
My fingernails are worn completely down to the wick
And I scream and yell and frantically kick.
But no one responds, for they cannot hear
Because the tormented me is buried deep, deep down inside.
Buried alive.
Sure, they see the beautiful exterior of my coffin
The faithful husband;
The attentive father;
The loyal employee;
The abiding citizen.
While the real me, buried six feet under the faux exterior
Weeps loudly, struggling to be free, bleeding from fingertips and dying a slow, painful death.
The first shovel of earth burying me beneath my own surface
Was heaped upon me by the rigid, formal structure of the mind controlling education system
which we are forced to invest so much time of our youth
The rules, regulations and memorization of facts which do not resemble the truth
Fell upon my exterior as I let the first unheard yells loose.
The next shovel and many thereafter I can only blame myself
As a pregnant girlfriend far too young buried the real me deeper inside.
A career to pay the bills.
More children after that.
Fitting in with the Country Club sect.
Playing the diplomat.
The me who I was meant to be slowly rotting away
Under the weight of all this dirt and nobody visiting the grave.
When I die, many will weep for me, the me they think I be
Not knowing for years I have wept for me, the me only known, by me.
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