That old familiar hook,
like honey dripping off its comb.
I try,
with a smile,
but good intuition can always spot my tells.
Toggling the line,
I tremble,
afraid to fly.
Let go,
let god.
Easier said than done.
That same god condemns,
detests,
and exiles my kind.
Why shalt thou conform?
Its followers only twist and exacerbate a prickly situation,
disguising it in shiny wrappings,
calling it a gift.
I'd rather bide my time,
with a heavy heart,
and conscious soul.
