I
inhale the flame, as torn asunder, to witness my life. How for nightmares, that
closer for damaged, walking as sages; to fool for self, this inner phantom, to
cleave the Ghost. The soul is vexed, as silent torture, to obtain a day; where
hell rests, where a psych is absent, but still at a brain’s reach; to fall for
parts, to deign to self, this riddled implication. How to surpass it, where
growth would settle, truly a detriment? Oh the smallness, to live as torn, to
ask, How does it feel? I’m not the
same, as to outsoar self, this grandiose gesture, this psychotic soul; but not
for death, as one so slanted, to infer the subtle deaths; or shadow this life,
a mother as a foe, a father as a phantom. We can’t escape it, this inward
journey, this outward appearance; to see for patterns, at that exact moment, where
the mind is haywire; oh the mischief, as cordial foes, a pigeon for research;
where hell is sewing—a grand piano, to watch us squirm. Are we different
souls—flattered by mimics, up and ‘til that given moment; to run like fools, to
render hatred, for one that states the facts. It couldn’t be real, a lying
mirror, aware of our follies!—for yet it lives, the inner friction, taunting
our liquor. Oh to love us, this acute fire, the zeal of resistance; to flame as
fools, to court as fools, to ignore as fools; for we mustn’t ask, the total
ass, of their behavior; else to offend, this outward vex, to incur an outward
label; so more the false, to challenge dreams, to feel as an outcast. Oh to
love us, to feel this fuse, even a wick in a psyche—burning from soul to soul,
this fever of fools. I speak of self, as to push a boundary, as far to her
pleasure; for this is pain, to lessen esteem, the foresight of fools.
