A wonderfully wise and awakened man once said,
"**** myself or love myself, which is the treason?"
and that is a question that roams and moans in my mind
i have an army of searchers inside my skull
scouring for the answer, looking for a sliver
of sense to provide clarity through my abundance of clouds
and this man was an honest poet and a belligerent drunk
though he is famous in his life and even after his death
but if I were to die five minutes ago, where are the tears?
who would be holding their knees to their chest in fear
of their skin running away and their bones shattering in pain
Would there be at least one soul to moan into the night
when they think that no one is listening to their begging
and pleading to the stars to send me back into their arms?
If I were to die an hour ago, would there be a news broadcast
in the honor of a teenage girl who did too many drugs and
wrote words with a unique penmanship that mixed print
and cursive in a construct of phrases that made little sense
to anyone that didn't also have their own army inside their skulls?
So, I pose this question to myself every day in the bathroom mirror:
"**** myself or love myself, which is the treason?" and I hope,
if i prove to be wrong and an afterlife carries our souls upon the arrival
of a hearse to our homes and a tear to our parents' eyes that the wise
and wonderfully awakened man had found his answer,
but did not understand it. For I am crippled by the fear of not knowing,
though also by the thought of being content and no longer looking
deeper than the valence shell of my own twisted and sad mind.