Modernism

I refuse to take action,
To bend my own will,
To justify a fraction
Of the time I kill.

I cannot choose one choice
Above another decision.
You can hear my voice,
Cracking with lack of vision.

My pain is my own,
A hermit hidden away,
Never to be shown
For fear of what to say.

I stand pinned, foot to floor,
Rich with many an excuse,
With wisdom borne of trial poor,
Nothing to pry me loose.





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