Living inside my own head, most
would call me recluse;
their eyesight glued on assumption
witnessing my pompous &
mysterious ways.
But they are highly mistaken——
I truly am open & humbled
in my analysis
of them, of you and
what makes you "tick,"
questioning the lucidity of it all.
Why does music really soothe your soul?
In the basement bedroom with those friends
that haven't come to mind in ages. And
an Eminem mixtape——
before He was a
Rolling Stone——when His rhymes were
crucial, often heard through clouds
of Marijuana smoke
blaring out of old speakers
ready to blow.
And why would you really surrender?
Then leap into magma of Mount
Mihara,
where that fragile college girl
perished, turned to liquid, who
just couldn't keep quiet any longer.
Bewildered by her desires for women
(same ways a man desires women),
inspiring others to make true of
"Suicide Point:" the scene of much demise.
I know how the world works:
scrutiny smothering our heads
like a fog with unconditional
darkness.
I beg of them.
I beg of you, to understand
that these black shadows are real
in my head——pinning silent sin-
filled hearts to filthy sleeves.
