Boxes Poem by Max Myre

Freedom,
it is not a choice
nor is it an option
it is, it
and it means everything

We are born free
Yet we choose to live in boxes,
and be buried in one,
boxes, boxes, boxes
we love our boxes, more than we love

Some boxes are laced with satin
others with rusty, crooked nails
yet, we all remain in them
safely, voluntarily
into slavery

Boxes, boxes, boxes
how I hate you
you give the illusion of grandeur
riches keep pouring in
yet, the emptier you get

And once true freedom comes
in the form of Lady Death
I am to be put back in a box
worms and maggots
my only true friends

Outside of these boxes
lies a scary world
where instead of living in a box
you live, simply
but beware, for Lady Death is everywhere

If you fear her
you fear life
if you fear life
you might as well be dead
boxed and buried

I burned mine
while the flames roared
I was scared
when nothing remained but it’s ashes
I was free

I spend my days writing
and sometimes wondering
what my box might have looked like
then I remember, it is gone
and I am free

Wandering around the boxes
not caring what’s inside of them
for whatever is in there
is dead, lifeless
meaningless