How Deep Is Shallow Poem by Ique martin

Like tryin to fit a square peg into a round hole
The whole Universe held within ya Soul
Knowin ya role in stability yet ya still patrol
The fluctuatin stroll lookin for a moment to hold
Like wisdom comin from a bottle
So ya swallow wit intoxication to follow
As ya wallow in deception, livin misdirected
Connected to insurrection, wearin ya heart on ya sleeve
Waitin to receive Life Love n Happiness
Wit no concept of how, to get n keep it
Ya self contained, grounded, well rounded
Like a renaissance Man, as sharp as an ice pick
A wish list, always steppin in the ick
As dull as a silent flick, life will bleed ya dry
Like the parchedness of unteared eyes
The stare of a world that ya deny, that doesn’t care
Blinded by desire, pacified by the objects of want
Sex ignites the fire, so ya become a lecher, a catcher
A fetcher like a satyr, bein a martyr
A denier schemin, believin that ya inner bein is hidden
Til ya ridden out of existence by a consciousness
That’s stuck in the moment, this instance
Wit no future, just creature comforts, doin dumb somethins
Tryin to contain the contents of ya stomach in a mindset
Clouded wit nonsense, violence, livin the present, in a past tense
Like sittin on the fence watchin life go by
Commentin on why things went awry, terribly wrong
Singin ya woeful song, wearin a thong
Wit little else on, wonderin why ya can’t go to the prom
What’s the roll of a pawn, searchin for Kingdom Come
Goin home, findin ya self alone
When in Rome, self applied dome, bad to the bone
As solid as hollow can be, in a society that likes to be P.C.
Lackin reality, a fantasy of what could be
Like smoke n mirrors bein a psychic instant
Followin animal instinct, everythin becomin forensic
Bein a, the trick, the twist is turnin back to 1’s self
Findin there’s nothin left, but dust
Lookin for answers, not knowin the questions
Tryin to be multi-directional, ya end up
Bein a urinal, ya not off anymore
Unsure seekin a cure, wit everything becomin manure
Endurin the eventual comin, but ya runnin backwards
Neva on time, but ya arrive, bein eaten alive
Yet ya survive cause ya contrive a way to be alive
In a shallow grave called Life, wit a limited shelf life
Sage is just a way of askin, how deep is shallow
The circuitous routes is not always easy to follow
The maze is altered by haze, amazed by the lint in ya pocket
The substance, the content of ya liminal tract
Bein a clown act, which is the fact, deep or shallow
Reality is, can be strange n hollow, in a fair exchange, Life borrows.