What is it I really want?
My freedom?
Freedom doesn't really exist

What I want is to cop out
shun responsibility
and become lazier than I am now

I exist only as a pseudo intellectual
do everything half-baked
to be left alone
and do what I want
in my own way
on my own time
I want to create
playing God in the garden of fine arts

I'm an incurable romantic
but also paranoid
there's always someone there
to steal my flower of creativity
someone to drink
at the elixir of my life
cut off the supply
killing the flower
and forcing me into a society box
my own pre-fab coffin
a square peg into a round hole
there's always someone there
to whittle me down till I fit

The real world is pressing upon me
a burden heretofore unimagined in my world
cracking my barriers
the troops are storming the gates
I give in
the ideal is gone
society again has won
chalk up another gain
another statistic
another idealist
another enemy
vanquished