Some words I mashed together a while back.  I can never think of titles for these things, so call it whatever you want.

There's not much I know, from this life or the last,
But struggle, and strife, and no way to get past

The pain of heredity, and pattern, and Id
And all is the same from when we were kids.

And nothing can change, or stay the same
And this in my heart - all of life is a game.

The rules are all nebulous, not clear or concise,
Not to be played on field or on ice

But deep in the corners of querulous mind
Where phantoms of striction come real and bind

Our hearts and our heads to ideals so divine
But muscle and blood give no quarter to lines

Drawn in the sand, with sticks and with rocks.
The body is beast, caring not of mind's talk

Of mores, and of rightness, and what others may think,
But only of pleasure, and deeply to sink

Into skin, and moisture, and heat beyond bearing
And nights in the sand beyond measure of caring.



I'm pretty sure "striction" isn't a word, but it fits, and it's my poem, so screw you!