“Liberte”

Safety, in the arms of conformity,
is a necessity for survival.
Though some choose suicide.
A risqué disposition, maybe?
Nudity!
Who thought of clothing rational?
Liberte!
We are gods,
in our little ways.
I feel agoraphobia,
sitting in my bedroom,
thinking about this orchestration,
suspending us on strings.
But we are not puppets.
Culture sticks, like chewing gum
on rubber soles.
It clings. Its reality.
Oh how cruel, this
Liberte,
to torture us in reverie!