Writing

I. The Hare 

The hare can bound and sprint and leap, 

Without much effort, rewards will reap. 

The hare can brag and flaunt and rule, 

It goes like this, as it is the truth,

but we snap our mouths shut as people smile and agree,

Good riddance the crowd says, while we don’t speak a word.

Four more months till the lines of work-

The coding of my life in word form-

Molds into a steel cage.

The cage's walls lined with a maze of puzzles,

Answers tucked between my ears.

Is it a bad idea to cry?

To cry at the sign of light's fleeting moments?

They end as soon as you wipe them away,

fogginess spilling in a soliciting manner over

To solitude's arena.

The matches that burn,

It's hard to find a balance

Between continuity

And the every growing weight that

Tirelessly

Chips the paint away.

Wait–no,

They say 

America was raised 

By our founding fathers 

And I'm sure it was 

But what about it's mothers