Don't feel sorry for me
I see the look in your eye
You're simpathetic in respect
Trying hard not to judge me for what I am
You struggle to keep an open mind
My demeanor and first impression are negative stimuli
Your mind is conflicted of which category to insert me
In one encounter my efforts to convince you of the person I am is pointless
You're judgement is premeditated
Mind in marination
Unsure of who I am
And that you'll never know
You are not inside of my living corpse.
The reality that we all die someday
Sometimes I think of death
The coroner, the scalpel, the cremation, the burial.
A lengthy drive off of a stubby overpass doesn't wander far.
Is it beauty or grotesque
Is it wrong to think of
Or is it natural
To think inside of your head alone extendedly
Is it mania
Depression
The single developing cell of what becomes Schizophrenia
The faults of my own Ignorance..
