Im a calm, cool collected cucumber underneath this fandangled, wiry, wrinkled visage.
Ive escaped the clutches of the tangled snare of my image.
Where and when I belong and to whom is no matter.
I pass by groups and clans and grimace inquisitively at thier chatter.
To my ears its an alien clamour of clashing egos and look at me's.
They'd all be happier in a lonesome cross legged position enjoying the breeze beneath the trees.
With ease I float through my day passionately.
Expanding and contracting with the waves of existence.
I sway indefinitely.
Yield to and renounce the question arisen from the back of the mind "what does it mean to be me"

Theyre trying to stop us
They want to see us fail
They expect us not to feel
The source of our ails
"Keep them in the maze" they say
"And withhold the truth"
"Fill their brains with triviality in the paper and on the news"
"This is how we'll ensure they all follow suit"                        
I can't see the face of our enemy but I surely feel his breath.    
He breathes it through our minds, souls and bodies
And wishes for our death

The amount of pain in the brain of a man insane.
He tries to do what he should but it proves to be no good.
The pressures of human interaction give him an awkward set of roles
in this social contraption.
Is he a loser, is he a genius, is he a loner, a stoner, a *****, a badass?
Everyone tries to fit him in a class.
No one feels secure in this skewed world without their false code of unspoken word.
The man insane feels he is the only one who has no reason to run from the thoughts
that create unease in others,
people that think outside the box get killed by the others.
He knows this and still lives on knowing hes ridiculed by the status hes drawn.
writers block is a ***** when it comes from a woman.
and the man that hes become wants to do her no wrong
but every move he makes has the effect of a nuclear bomb.
he doesnt know how to do right
so he writes it in a song
and all along she shows him how much he means to her.
every time it comes out its news to be heard
because while shes breaking his heart and his will
hes thinking of her.
While he tries and tries but the problems wont subside,
he becomes the man insane with nothing to hide
but no one to tell that inside he died

Today i feel poetic as the cool wind chills my soul.
These trials in life will make a soul turn cold.
Working a life consuming job to obtain that putrid currency.
But the wisdom that ive gained will allow me to live a life that will
enrich every fiber of my being.
This cool wind pierces my brain as i plan for the future.
Allowing me to use my wisdom to spread my wisdom for the future.
What is a man without knowledge and the will to enlighten indefinitely?
A corporate zombie in this cold, mechanically efficient, society.
A hollow piece of what a child used to be.
A waste of sentience with no curiosity.
It doesnt make any sense to me.
So when this cold wind blows through my soul
I wont let myself grow into a worthless drone.
The effects that cause the rest to falter
will be the reasons my mentality will conquer.

In what fashion
Should my passion  
Be put to action?
For every time I sway some way
A little voice in my head will say
"What is the ultimate
What is the true way
Pointless ventures have no place
Keep doing this and your running in place
Wasting time
Make use of your mind
In this race of life
You'll be left behind"        
Hollow and brash
I search for the next path
Discouraged from the last
Until the veracity that once was comes back to be passed  
See, for me
Motivations are fleeting
Nothing is ever fun
Once you find out the meaning

Man is made with a hole in his heart
It can be filled with many, many things
But not all these things fit the part
The heart of man is peculiar in its intent
Friends, family, women, drugs, money   the heart strives to fill the hole with time well spent  
Good intent or destructive ventures
Choices innumerable
The pain or contentment is waiting for mans time of leisure
Strike while the iron is hot
Sit back and let the mind rot
Fickle intent focused on the plot
Goals set from this point result in a flop

The things that I surmise
With my wide open eyes
Are that I know absolutely nothing of my place in the cosmos
And I don't mean to boast but I understand alot more than most    
But is this a gift or a curse, an inner voice asks whats the cost?
This mind of mine, constantly fixated on the why
The constant nagging of the pursuit of truth ticking away with the time
Questions often asked come to no finite resolution
They just fill my head with paralyzing smog and pollution
Should i long to have the splendid peace of the simple fool, no
This is my blessing and my burden, and my mind is my tool.

Love, lust,  or appreciation
Innocent encounters charged with anticipation
A mind coccoons the subject with infatuation
Bouts of uncertainty, saturated with elation.