Boundaries.

If lines could be drawn and walls could be built,
I’d be the chief of my thoughts and the queen of my feelings.
I'd know what I want and what I need.
What's good and what's not.

There'd be a clear distinction between my mind and heart.

Mental health versus societal stealth.
A walk by the lake versus a sit-down by the pier.
Clarity versus confusion.
Perennial happiness vs perpetual anger.

Write or paint? Right versus wrong. Read or write? Left versus right. Work or play? Light against the dark. Dog against cat. Snitch against seal. Black versus white.

Move. Stop.

Stuck in the rut of grey,
engulfed by pink — a bubble of purple.
A rainbow cutting through the clouds.
A tinge of hope.

Light radiating from the end of the tunnel.
A deceiving illusion.
The end of an era.
The beginning of a song.

Where are lines drawn and why are walls built?
I'm the star in my cheap sonnet that plays on loop.
Jukebox or a carefully curated playlist?
The choices never end.

My thoughts violate every boundary ever drawn.

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