The wolves

It is a funny world where the group is more important than I. the meaning behind the circle that we all hold so tightly to, revenge and love, the beginning again when the ending was insight. We rage these creatures of the night, these wolves high on closerial, resperdial and prozac trying so hard to come down or up. We scream into a white moon thinking it will turn yellow, it fall right out of the sky leaving a hole to see to the aliens, those timeless souls who always know who is right, and who is wrong. and we scream waiting for justice, waiting for that apology that never came, the phone calls of I love you and I miss you. we run like wolves scavenging what is left of our souls, pieces of meat on sidewalks, left over thoughts in trash cans, indecent proposals by strange men, and we think we hear the call of the wild. The call to be bigger than this, this mundane existence of two face lies and innocent wrong beliefs. We think we can rise above, rise so high the ground disappears and we are living someone else's lie, the untold stories of existence. We can escape our own childhoods by just being positive. We can pretend we are new, remake our smile, our clothes, our hair, put on makeup, claim our face never had a scar. We never cried ourselves to sleep in the middle of a rain storm, wondering why, or what.
No we escape it all, by fate says the media. we can buy our way into love, says every product, we can be better than we are, says every acquittance who forgets life in every conversation. and yet the sad truth that always comes in the middle of the night is that we are still the same person, living the same life we have always lived. We are still women waiting for that solution, that man who thinks he knows us better than we know ourselves. That materialistic reflection of our own worth. That support system we never had in childhood that gives us conditional love.
We are still waiting in this strange cut off society, where muscles are in cased in machines. and lovers are only white lies. We live hoping to escape through sex again, or through a dinner conversation about the weather, or about love, that tight window we climb through to end up beside the trash can and a gate. We think as we endless watch others run away we will find our hidden passage way, that person with an endless tunnel we can crawl into. That face that reflects care. and we wait, like children on the edge of existence, realizing no human being or relationship is powerful enough to change who we have come to know about life. and even in the end, when the guardians and angels  explain the stories we have lived, we will still be the same.