Why do I keep running from the inevitable?
Why am I so afraid to live?
Why is it that I feel like I am already dead?
These and other questions are mumbled aloud to myself
During the quest for some peace of mind.
Concepts of cerebral liberation appear difficult to locate
Behind the obsidian opacity of the noxious oxygen.
Suffocation seems imminent.
Irritation appears to be certain.
Aggravation renders me exhausted.
My will to survive has been depleted.
Only the act of slumber
Fills up the free time in the pathetic saga
That is the radioactive resovoir
Better known as my screwed up life.
If only the embers of my youth could be ignited.
Visions of a suburban playground
Flash before my eyes.
Uninhabited are all of the benches.
In fact, all areas of the quadrangle appear quarantined.
Come to think of it,
The space looks as if no activity ever took place
Within the confines of the diamond links.
Adrenaline alters my state of consciousness,
Allowing me to escalate myself
And penetrate the vertical boundary.
Obstacles are now obsolete.
Voices from the aromatic atmosphere
Guide me towards the deserted swingset.
Upward I swing
While the wind pushes me.
The gentle touch of her boisterous hands
Point to a higher sense of arousal.
Youth is now restored
And the zone of fresh air and recreation
Has made a difference in someone's life.
It was an area established for retaining the essence of juvenile joy.
No longer does the square starve
From a deficiency of hope.

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