Worn Out.

I wish my life had been offered to me in a to-go box, instead of a cold hard steel plate that I can't keep because I have to return it tothem later on in the day. My morals bind me to the place. I was taught never to steal. I was raised to trust in my loyalty. I stay because of my obligation- my duty towards the thoughts drilled into my head. I don't agree but I obey. I can run away, but I don't. In reality, I'm not capable. I live in place that offers you a false sense of security that lulls you into feeling a non existent liberty. You would never understand because you are a to go box, you take what you want from the moment and move forward, looking for a new and more exciting box with an even more delicious and satisfying savory taste. I get the same plate everyday, washed by boundaries and social corruption and dried with a false sense of hope, a political lie and a hopeless youth. Served dull and grey, and the only splash of color is in a distance so far that you succumb to tears every night because never has a reality of impossibility been so painful, so pure and raw.