There is a yo-yo
On the proverbial stagefront
Unraveling counterclockwise
Unraveling a string
About its self perception of sexuality
And romance
With people residing along a full bodied universe
Of urban roads paved with ceramic tiles
The strings of thought
Are ragged and matted
It's twisted roads and road work signs
And a fair share of dead ends
There's many paths
And they're all dangerous
Because the car has no brakes
And there's no seatbelts in the trunk
There's no two lanes
It's always been a one way street
Stained with blood and vomit and tears
And that's only what's been owned up to
Sometimes it overflows from another street
Falsely dichotomized across from its own
Apparently the people who live there
They get a little violent sometimes
Because they're told they should spin fast
In front of large audiences
And feel like in any sexual situation
They have the upper hand
So maybe I'm the violent one
Because I feed them
So I don't have to be the one
To seek reciprocation
Does this mean I don't respect the process?
Should I keep away from the earth?
Or is it the age old fear
That things that the god I was raised on
Would not approve of
Must be pathological and evil somehow
Especially when they're sources
Of physical pleasure
It's difficult to find a point of truth
Between reality
And self perception
