| This throbbing of my insides, |
| this melancholic tribal inner wanderlust, |
| this fatal longing for something impalpable, |
| this unnameable emotionless urge. |
| This, this leaves me empty, |
| yet propels me onward |
| Hoping to annihilate entropy with emotion, |
| I go about the living rituals. |
| I invest, I sacrifice, I compromise… |
| Yet entire understanding escapes me by mere steps, |
| this I know, |
| but logic is a failure |
| I come to mistrust and mistrusting trust brings me |
| back around to the beginning. |
| The things I see at times have no names. |
| I myself am the nameless creature of dubious profession, |
| notorious for that which is impolite to be admitted, |
| the truth reveals itself in inconveniences and fate |
| the faith can make a discrepancy between shame and being shunned. |
| I fight idiosyncrasies of my own making, |
| I draw imaginary lines in my mind |
| hoping to segregate the good behaviors from the bad, |
| the problem flux from this knowledge, from this world. |
| I try to change the patterns that I try to tell myself |
| were long ago instilled by someone else. |
| I walk the border between denial and vacancy, |
| with open eyes to find my hand are still in front of me, |
| my feet are still attached |
| and my organs still manufacture liquids that cause me to have strange dreams. |
| I have heard that nothing can be created that doesn’t already exist, |
| somewhere, somewhere, somewhere. |
| I must try to contain my thoughts in this constricting box that is |
| this world, this experience, this instant. |
| I invest, I sacrifice, I compromise |
| I invest, I sacrifice, I compromise |