It’s coming to that time, I’ve been so complacent.
Breathing air of unease,
I look alright; surely,
No one will know.
When I’m seeing it for what it is,
Down the line, there will be time
to fix it.
It’s a madhouse in my head –
Everything doesn’t make sense
No prescribe in a point
Where one wants to exist.
Desperately dreams,
seemingly, make-believe –
a place I’d like to go.
Poor boy
how little you know
now
You call my name
without infliction
but awareness
would serve
you best
call me
The Minx
don’t call me
J___.
The outpouring is often indecipherable, even to myself. Words leaps forward and explode from my hands; each connotation cleverly disguised in well placed euphemisms. Truthfully, I find it easier to live through her than myself, and acting out in her fabrication gives me the presence I could not normally achieve in the real.
It could be faux or it could be fur – either way you’re still wearing it.