What kind of sugar satisfies a mummy? What kind of danger perpetuates an ant colony?

All I come up with is some
sort of bland inspiration,
the kind of inspiration that, at first glance,
seems to come from an assumed sort of pain,
but really comes from the stifling of said emotion-
The silent emptiness that people are so
Afraid of being wrong when all
it is
is a strengthening of choice.
I don’t suppress my pain and hide from it…
I embrace, but for a moment,
and then let it go.
Hurt turns to a sort of feared lacking but is crafted into a longevity,
a haven for when one thinks the pain can’t be transformed.
In a way, we’re all running to a safehouse,
a crafted bastion for a life that becomes
too open, a shelter
that becomes more than part of a triumvirate necessary for survival.
One could be inclined to use such as a hideaway, but would then
completely divert its purpose.
And it all becomes the questioning, which
can’t be mentioned without the longing,
The void that’s constantly trying to be
filled
but never can be.
the only loss is in viewing this as a negative,
as the soul, be it what you will, should always
maintain some sense of being incomplete, some
lack of complacency,
if it and we aspire to be anything more than a collection of ignorance.

It's a little harder to throw convention to the wind when you aren't that familiar with the conventions. A rough idea remains, though. I am currently nailed in a shoddily crafted coffin that was buried three and a half feet under the ground. I'm not dead, at least not yet, but I'm not seeing any great method of escape at the moment. Freddie, friend of mine, he's a strange guy. He manages a little movie shop that offered him a job while he was returning some overdue tapes.