Entrapment in the life that binds me
Becomes the sentiment that defines me
And the desperation of the traditional, conventional
And everyday intentional
Conformity to a life
That bores me to tears. I am a good daughter and a good wife,
But then I think of all the years to come
And I cringe at the thought of this numb,
And my soul screams resistance.
Even the marrow in my bones cries
Out for some wrongness. My brain tries
To tell me that this life is healthy perfection.
And yet I crave infection.
The woman in me desires
To do something purposely wicked. I perspire
With the violent need to do things that are simply not me
But that prove that I still have the capability
To find out whom I have the potential to be. I want to, just because I can.
Maybe it's not a good reason to be the type of woman
That steps in the fire just to feel
Her blood boil and cuts herself just to make sure she's still real
And alive. I don't want to complacently exist
In this mediocre world. I commit to resist
And give in to temptations.
The seductive beauty of human mistakes
Are whispered in my ears and I don't want to shake
The little devil on my shoulder. I don't want to be ordinarily happy or sad.
I endeavor to be uncommonly bad.
It is not enough to be alive.
I want to thrive.