Familiarity
is a isolationist’s prison.
We, each
separately, are its prisoners,
captive
in the irons of our expectations,
dressed
down is our repetitious behavior.
We are
the self-consciousness
as our
own wardens,
as we
leave endless trails
of our
own admissible evidence.
We, the
silence
of
unceasing self incrimination,
are the
bad habits of crime dogs,
caged
but none the wiser.
We are
the doers of deeds
that are
the action-masks
of a
deeper guilt.
We, internally,
are always on trial.
We are
easily the recitations
of never
ending injustices.
We are
the strategists
for
self-inflicted punishment,
yet
always feeling guarded.
We are
presumptively preoccupied
with
premise and position,
and with
no freedom of the heart.
Alertness
appeals
to our
energy reserves,
to be
supportive to the cause,
while
stress basically steals whenever
and all
that it subversively can.
Our
morality is a barbed wired
mother
figure closely watching.
She is
made to be placative,
yet
paradoxically bound up.
We are
all within the fall shadows
of
original sin.
Our
suffering is a storyable effort
at the
relevance of consequences.
The
retentive mind is a snitch.
Only the
irrationally justified
mischievously
beg for forgiveness.
All our
meals,
no
matter how lavish,
can
eventually be
familiarity's
slop on the tray.
Choice
is a thought filled sting operation.
Repetition
is the imprisonment,
practiced
into unconsciousness.
Personal
rebellion is an afterthought,
once the
cuffs of consensual contexts
are
already on.
Personality
is as familiarity’s defense.
It is a
posterized composite
of
compromise seeking acknowledgment.
Selfish
and selfless
are in
the same prison yard.
The Tao
of familiarity
would be
time spent in solitary,
candidly
introspective.
Self, as
the parole board,
is
falsely contentious.
Headlines
and verdicts live on
as
whisperings in the mind.
All that
is permission
lives to
satisfy accusation.
Familiarity
is the evidence storage room,
yet there
is free admittance.
Even the
now, this very now,
is only
seen
as an
unexcused accomplice . . .
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