tired, complaining
he wants to choose his own hell
sweat dripping off
his search for light in this well
life in the night
people twist
as they shout
try as he might
people still tip
toe around
it’s honestly boring
their fears all he hears
convention to ground
only ‘yes’ ‘no’s
between their cheers
blank faces stare
as he throws them a question
contemplating the truth
the task
keeps them guessing
all he ever wants
is to see, smell
that they care
love breeding passion
in this hell they don’t dare
the breath of forget
on their lips
they seem feeble
constipated conversations
this hell
its other people