The Last Straw

You want to smell the roses
In the language that I speak
But I can’t make you bouquets
If it means that I’ll still bleed

I’m meant to smile and exchange
The pleasantries you desire
I can’t afford to burn the bridge
With my tongue’s consuming fire

To wear my hair in a manner
That satisfies your taste
To dress in styles you deem fit
To achieve your approved shape

Under a title you have given
Disguised as a reward
Only serving the positions
you think that I can best afford

I can only pray to God as you
And worship in your manner
You’ve built yourself to be my idol
The tarnished golden calf

My time must be spent in ways
That you decide are beneficial
Your hands upon the clock
Direct my hours and my minutes

All day
Each day
I work myself
Around your every need
I give myself to satisfy
Your all consuming greed

So when I have finally settled down
And nestled in my niche of ink
The last I need is to be told
I’m not allowed to write what I think

I feel its time you understand
That you better frolic somewhere else
I won’t always have blooming buds
Or fields within myself

And if you are searching for
A rose to carry home
You may find that I have only written
A garden filled with thorns

And as every rule is written for me
To satisfy your quips
And the least that you can allow
Is freedom from censorship


2 thoughts on “The Last Straw

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