What are you so scared of? Disappearing?
No it’s not that…that’s not what you are afraid of.
You are afraid nobody will notice you, so you enter the room with a swollen presence, ugly in its put on, stuffed with the gloating influx of pleasure from the embarrassed glances of all of whom you have trampled with your self-effacing glory.
Why don’t you break free from your shackles?
The ones you’ve become so comfortable with, while dreaming of freedom…long enough to distort the boundary between escapism & freedom.
I see how you are condemned to be obedient & yet live such a boastful & pragmatic existence.
The boy in you dreams on.
I dream on like an idiot.
I crave to desire you freely.
But there is freedom only in truth, a lie only concedes lust.
So then I must wait for my truth while you shall devour your lie (At least I’d like to think, to my benefit).
So then, you, like all the others who’ve abandoned me in the pursuit of their inevitable selfishness, will also leave with my arrows in your back.
What is it that inspires me? I ask, already knowing the tragedy of my inspirations or the lack of them.
Death’s charm invigorates me with its mystery. But my words seek posterity!
& they are useless to you; they do nothing to you, like most things.
I don’t think I will survive the cynicism that poisons me but doesn’t kill me so I live in a pathetic, poisoned existence of sorts. Confused by the saddened perspective I have ascribed myself to.
They accuse me of adolescent adulthood, which part of that is an accusation is not clear.
I find myself homeless again.
Now I am rambling. I must stop.
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