The Game

Of course shame swells inside, like the largest, ugliest of spots,
Of course guilt grows inside, blossoming horribly, like a flower that’s already dead,
The Game is a game that teases at all seconds of every minute within each hour of everyday,
Coaxing you to dark places where your fantasies come true for milliseconds,
Before being snatched away as you sit and wallow in a pool of your own sweat and stupidity,
Cracking after moments or months mends no fences or builds any bridges,
Once or one million times cuts no cloth nor shields the truth from the eyes peering out from you,
As you know the eyes peering back at you are the ones no longer on this Earth,
And are generally the ones you love most in the world;
Yet, embrace and enjoy are the preachers’ words of withered old wisdom,
Youth of innocence and experimentation should not be wasted on the whims of righteousness,
Only I do not have a choice in the matter of feeling right or wrong,
As, whether morally or immorally, whatever way I choose to walk,
The temptresses of The Game come out to play, refusing to grant peace to I,
A person who thinks one thing and acts the other, who says one thing and does the other,
Blind, deaf, gullible, believes what he is told and is not clever enough to figure out the truth,
The Game’s solitary pawn on a board of kings and queens, and bishops who do not give a damn,
As well as those rooks, who are wily and wise to The Game’s tricks and know exactly how to play it without enduring the suffering;
Bedrooms, front rooms, kitchens, gardens, shopping centres, schools, colleges, national institutions, pubs, hospitals, toliets, dance floors, the air, the sea, the ground, the grass,
There are no boundaries where asylum can be sought, there are no windows through which you can jump,
There is no end to the tempting of the temptresses as the temptresses are substituted for carbon copies,
Like remakes are made exactly the same to double the money all over again, only sometimes they fail,
But the temptresses never fail, whether they wait years or centuries, they get to you in the end,
Scratching at the mask you wear in public with the wide smile that says:
‘Hello! I’m happy now! I have always been happy! And I always will be happy!’
Knowing that underneath, you are not so happy, as you are succumbing to The Game’s way,
The way of deceit and cheap pleasures that are truly ironic as they prove an old saying true…

‘The devil makes work for idle hands.’
Work or a game.