Human Progression

Always behind glass do we find our most precious desires,

A glass tempered of brazen grandeur,

We are a stubborn lot.

Unable to step forward,

Harnessed via the cold clean glass of our own own creation,

The wall is without in hiding within,

But we are a stubborn lot.

As the minutes of our mortal hour tick by,

So do we slowly and painfully push through those barriers,

One by one they fall and,

One by one they rise in turn,

Being the stubborn lot that we are.

So runs the precariously predictable progression of human life,

We carry the shards of our past along with us,

Glass in our heels,

Steel in our hearts.

BAM, Poetry. This makes life sound pretty fucking brutal, and, well, sometimes it is, but broken down, I totally think life's more good than bad. Ah, poetry. Ah, no rhyme scheme. Ah, not really well designed poetry, but still poetry because it's an art and anybody can hop on that bandwagon. Ahhhh...