Doubt pours out of the water spout,
which is connected to my face.
So I shut it off,
And like a tablecloth,
conceal my cluttered shame.

I leave my castle,
and with a tattered hassle,
I strike a lovely pose.
But a pose it is, and like a stifled hymn,
I shutter at empty prose.

As soon as I leave,
I cry and then grieve,
wishing I never departed.
I long for my bed, to rest my troubled head,
and get these lost thoughts charted.

Even that's a lie,
cause I wait to die,
caring not at all to think.
The narcotics I bleed,
flushed out by swirling steam,
carry me passed the brink.

But when I start to pass,
crossing the overpass,
I slam my brakes and beg.
Then life appeases,
my Id does what it pleases,
while I struggle standing on one leg.

After night approaches,
I ash my final roaches,
and slip into my home.
Is this incarceration,
disguised as a democratic nation?
The confusion manifests as a poem.

This is never eased,
and with a new disease,
my intellect is infected.
But, this growing doubt,
that clogs my water spout,
is despairingly reflected.

Though, answers dance around,
in their lovely gowns,
they leave when the music halts.
Then my cataract,
allows the mind to detach,
and hides the mirror and my faults.

But, this is not much relief,
because my chattering teeth,
remind me that the world is cold.
Reluctant to breath,
I role up my sleeves,
because the world is for the bold.