Unspeakable, the acts performed.
Purity devoured in the darkest confines.
Honesty unspoken, a product.
Denying what one experienced,
Either physically or internally,
Feeding deception,
A life with little reality.
Nothing to hold that's real.
Possessions, material a refuge,
But consistently fading.
Replacing what is incapable of enduring.
Realizing the only thing I can feel is real
Is myself, also fading, aging.
Should I stress over what I was
Or what I'm becoming?
How I looked or will look?
Never appreciating what I have currently.
Of all the things I can't control,
When everything else is lost,
Shall I find and keep myself,
Til I be valued by another