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)
