Perhaps it is the way
that words can become like chains
repressing, confining a soul
so that nothing at all is precious
and everything feels contrived.
Or perhaps it's the feeling that
remains when the passion fades;
like stagnant waters in a polluted bay.
I've never been content with complacency.
Or maybe, perhaps it's the fat
of another owning the rights to my heart.
What have you ever done
to deserve control over my own happiness?