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I can not help but to be Pessimistic When there is not A speck of light Within these closed Eyelids on mine. - Plastic mirth and Celophane coated eyes Induce a phony dearth Of plagued ideas, Those ingrained negative Connotations that open My mind To the realms of the Gods in the abyss Of mine own shredded, War torn heart. I can feel nothing But hatred. I feel the Desire to belong, But I can not sense Myself as anything other Than scarred and useless. There is a hole right Through the center Of me. How it got there, I don't know. I can not help but laugh When I see a plastic Man cry when his Life is stolen right Before his very eyes. My pain and solitude Can only be amused when One of them tries To make a play At my grand charade. A distant look, From you. Anxiety feels me to the Brim, all I want is To be accepted. Is that such an Awful request? I lie awake At night Pondering on this Or on that And I am constantly Stumped by the Answer to mine Own question. Why am I the One who prowls on Tip toe when All I have to do Is ask this - Beautiful creature To stay the night With me and Share my soul? How is it that I'm stoppered By the desires That set me free On these grazing Gorillas? What am I scared Of when I speak To a female? What Is that bitter Gaul that Coagulates in my Throat When I try to speak To anyone about anything? I am not my father, I am not my mother, Nor am I any of those plastic Fools that play. Then what am I? Is there a name For the disease That I am? My personality Is caustic and Leeches out of My plastic Lunch box. The things that I give myself credit for Are not the things, Exactly, what These plastic Men tell me That I am. The depth of mine Own sense of who I am is the breadth of my personality. My perception of Time and mine own Image are as blurred as a bug Splattered on A windshield. This living room I have labeled The seventh Circle of hell. It is not much, it is the only other Place that You will catch me Outside of where I dwell. My room reeks Of my decay. The tomb of Everyday smudged With the blossoms Of my false Charade. I live only In my mind, For I am too Blind To see otherwise. |