The Adult-Child Complex

The grass I have found in these pastures

Lie painted green over the wilted brown.

Oh condemn me for the sin of optimism

This decision frolicked through springtime

But collapsed at the first chill.

Cold glares and blank stares accompany the blocks of wood

Continuously hacked into a tolerable form;

There is no place for beautiful trees in a master-plan forest.

Is this the end of true intelligence?

A quota?

A paycheck?

Oh what I would give for a martyr.

Intellect is given no heed

The brain is inferior to the chisel

The ears to the mouth.

Your age determines your IQ…

I digress.

I must believe this is the best option for my future.

Photo by Susan Aldworth:

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