pass the parcel

Old beliefs wrapped

layer upon layer,

the hidden purveyor

of an age-old game.

Old news leaves

print on my hands,

smudging what’s real

in an unreal world,

where nothing is fixed

all opinions mixed,

as we all pass the parcel.

Until the silence

lands on my lap.

The beat of the music

pausing my mind

as I gently go in,

removing opinions;

discarding them

for the rubbish they are.

The repetitive blah

that fills time and space.

The make-believe stories

we tell ourselves.

The repetitive lies

of not being enough;

that life should be tough.

Living hand to hand,

hand to mouth.

Forgetting life’s a game,

a never ending play

where the one you betray

is only ever yourself.