It has been said
These things you own
Indeed, instead, own you
I am unsure
And wonder still
Is this completely true
Most certainly
They may become
A woven part of you
My deepest fear
This mind's invention
The darkest lust
And good intention
My cruel thought
Or kindest deed
Lash out in anger
Give aid to need
The broken promises
The resolved stand
As I pushed them away
Or held out my hand
Oh, bold design
Life's masterpiece
My failed attempts
Like falling leaves
Intoxicated, brooding form
Dark, cold, empty soul
Poor, beating, noble heart
That burns as hot as coal
Mocking little vanities
Cracked mirrored reflections
Wind blown, seeking bourne
In damned, earthly condition
My dirty little lies
Or bold imposing truths
Each testify my worth
When looked at, show the proof
In deepest, dark sequester
Searching, running, free
These things, I own
And, still I ask
Do they, infact, own me?
What do I own? My life. All of it. This place in time or at least, my part in it. I am not victim to any man or circumstance. I am not tennant nor prisoner. This is my life, my doing, my choices. These are my things, all of them. I am bound, only in this frame and to my decisions. What do you own?
