I usually feel unease, as if I'm at war, under siege.
My truth is cleverly constructed and expertly placed
as it is only a smoke screen concealing the secret barrage
of lies mimicking a black-bloc-tactic squad to successfully land
on their targets, excuses exploding loosely like shrapnel on grenades.
When found behind enemy lines, when caught in my web
the uselessness of my reasons tend to succumb
my would be accusers into a land of bewilderment.
Am I really this dumb, naive, stupid?
The response is not important, the effect is: my suicide;
pill. Instead of cyanide; confusion sweeps my victim.
Like all great wars, however, peace needs to arise
sooner than later, the soldiers get tired, society cries
for a new era to suffice, at least a decade of peaceful history.
There is no use in erasing the past, the pens ink is well
dried by now, just pretend all news is new news to me.
My eyes are like broken faucets, no warmth or blood
flows out of me, only tears made out of water; ice-cold.
The delay on contacting a plumber is, with reason, ill-sought;
this is just one more distraction I've manifested
as I bide time to finally get the show on the road.
However, if this treaty fails, than one more plan unfolds;
that of a liquid diet followed by multi coloured pills.
Can't explain the obsession with demise, must be
the fact that I was on the battlefield for front
much too soon, way before I was mature enough to understand
what it is I was to see; either way, damage is done.
I, like every other old soul warrior, try hard
to delicately dictate what I know in prose and rhyme;
as if I have the right, as I have talent
worthy of history's acknowledgment, if I'm worth the time.
A new me calls this island home yet I'm sought for crime
to the successful outcome of the hell I reside and call home.
Prior to my election into this hell hole consciousness,
an era of misery is what ruled as secondary nature.
I am the one who inherits the scorn for the past chairs
choice of direction; now no revolution is seen on the horizon.
As far as my thoughts can intrude, there is nothing on the way in.
I vowed to the discontent masses that a new age
would come, a saga they could be proud to print in page.
The voices in my head were content with the new found epiphany-
yet, I to was incapable of bringing the machine around to reason.
All it was concerned in doing was draining whiskey glasses upon
glass, as if treason was its only agenda, failure only concern.
At least I attempted some kind of direction,
I diluted its hand to the cloudy mirror for assistance-
even with a shaking hand and diluted pupil demeanor
I could hold some sort of value system above satin.
Like a true politician, greed over came me from the beginning-
always searching for a little more out of less nothing.
These tales are all I got left to create the story of me,
the boredom that will become my autobiography.
Even in death, stress will eat me as I clutch silently
in fear at the great big could-be possibility
that my secrets will be exposed, my image tainted by the sin
I buried outta state, hid in closets around town.
If I showed you the Gods honest truth behind my years of hurt
do you think you'd understand the nature of my bitter tasting desert?
Or scoff loudly as you explain to me I deserve the consequences I inherit?
How many layers of defective skin can be left underneath of me?
Day by day I discover the horror, I'm nothing but a spiritual whore.
My values and morals bought daily at a cheap price, a bargain
compared to the other people I share space with- at least I complain
silently that my idealism are outta whack, out of tune
compared to the other instruments in society's symphony of auto tune
simplicity- with or without other peoples company
I am incapable of playing group games, cherades I destroy
with upmost embrassament to the game, to the trade of spy's.
I now have an expensive taste for betrayl
and late night adventures to cheap hotels, champagne
to match the nights unsuccesful spurlge on supplies
for the binge to come; now I follow blindly
through the hours to consume me, completely
led by the arm as I lies are told promises made to me
that in the morning it'll all be okay-
by then, we will be back to square one, drinking champagne.
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