Busy helping people pick up their shards
That I've even forgotten my pieces still
Linger on the floor, some too shattered
To be picked.
I'm busy trying to shine some light along their path
Forgetting the beam seldom gives as much light
To the person holding the torch of inspiration
I'm so caught up cleaning up other people's mess
That even when mine stinks I think It's just the remnant of theirs
I'm so ******* helping them deal with their demons
Probably because I fear facing my own monster
With a heavy log in my eye but I only see the specks in theirs
I'm the life guard of their swim across the ocean of despair
But my anchor is sinking me deeper and deeper
I'm teaching many the basics of combat in life
Yet life is the one battlefield I have failed to fight on
I guess I'm worse than them who seek for healing
For they are unlike me brave enough to realize they need a therapy

Innocence replaced with a conceitful attitude
A mission fueled
By deep seated anger to show your mom she can’t tell you what to do
To prove you’re a child no more
If you took a second or little more you’d realize that at 29 no man should see himself as a child proving himself a man
At this stage you should be I am
But you stand in defense of you
Believing your family wants the worst for you
I’ve realized there is nothing further to reach for and admit too than the truth
And the truth is little brother you make poor decisions
Based on the immature childlike lifestyle you’re living
If someone comes along with a difference of opinion you demonize them
In your mind they’re bailing on their responsibility to support your foolishness
When it comes to you everyone is a hater
But could it be you who's full of hate?
Could it be your constant contrarianism which brings you in contention with everyone you come in contact with that keeps you in a state of constant void and anger?
I think you like residing on the outskirts of rationalism
A place where making concessions in the name of courtesy is as profane as cursing
A land of misery where those hurting go to feel sane
As long as you live in denial of your need to deal with your issues little brother
The abused asylum is where you’ll remain

Life is like a weather-man's parade,
A spun-out ride of calamity,
And,
Causation,
Such details lost like blue winds,
In ever-green plateau's
Or high desert mountains,

All of the images,
My mind displays,
Are radiating,
Yet transparently,
Confining themselves,
Into whatever isometric language,
They deem fit