Understanding who you are

It’s easy to pretend that you’re lighthearted, it attracts the wrong crowds.

They’ll need you, eat you up, they might just be like you behind your mask.

The idle way of not being who you are. The romanticism on your skin, the

Stainless criminal, the deadening storyteller. I stand close to your periphery and search

For the clockwise truthteller. You’re overthinking yourself, once confined, you turn

Masochistic, unsustainable, everything about you, I run my fingers through the

Rhythm of your fake analogies and you blend in with your own extortion.

You water yourself down, enraged, you stare at me, holding back your tears, unrevealed.

Hunting my weaknesses, exposed, laid bare, barren, I sucked them dry, and I concentrate

On your face that searches freedom  more than anything from everything outside of its

Endangered lines and surrenders to an unachieved self-idolisation.


“Henry Clay and Helen Frick (cropped)” by Edmund Charles Tarbell (1862-1938)

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