It always locks the door to stimulation,
And only I, it seems, have the key.
I am drowning in the world of melancholy.
We've all appeared to have lobotomy
And let it go so easily.
My soul feeds on censored words.
Censored words they've called absurd
And would like for me never to know.
Everything's in vivid colors
While everything's a pale grey.
Everyone wants to stay the same.
The talking box says answers will explain,
But they won't undo my monotony.
My pen is a part of who I am.
From it flows not lifeless words,
But the very essence of my soul.
So here I write, with a burning flame,
Censored words they've told me to keep
Locked in the bottle of complacency
Behind the door of apathy.
So this, my pen, is the only key.
Will I be satisfied to the brim
With what I find behind closed doors?
There is something I have yet to find.
Perhaps it lies not where I can grasp.
Perhaps it's a myth we're fed from birth.
Maybe it's secrets I cannot evoke
With the scribbling of my pen in hand.
Ethereal visions I do not understand.
Yet though these things puzzle my mind.
Submerged inside something has learned
It is the key
To my eternity.