There exists a melancholy menagerie
down deep in the shadows of the muck
that makes me mortal;
seems the evolution of the masses
has somehow left me tainted.

I'm tired...

of reaching out
to people who would rather I didn't
and not to who'd rather I did
and the hurt.ing
either finale brings.

I'm weary...

of wanting
all the things that I shouldn't
and not the things I should
and the empty.ness
it leaves behind.

I'm drowning...

in a multitude of waters
amidst hopes that should keep me afloat
while clinging to the leaden dead
born of reaching wants.

And what it all boils down to,
this mental soup,
is that somebody has to suffer...

for the things I say
along my chosen way.

I choose me...
                                                                                  alone.

What is it in me
that leads me along forbidden paths
seeking personal happiness
rather than the things that should make me happy?

Paint a picture of a happy clown
and throw me inside his skin,
but don't touch the eyes...

leave them blank.



...and imagine whatever you want
into the caves of an emotional hermit.

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