A perfect type of style,
One I can't run from,
Too much craziness
To be crazy,
Yet a bit of reasoning
To refuse any order.

A type of hair
That says
"I'm mine, I'm yours,
And none at the same time."
Teeth that tells me
What you've been eating,
Feet that tells where you've been,
And everything's fine.

Though your smell
Still unrecognizable,
I have my own thoughts about that.
Maybe they're wrong,
But, who cares?

You are my image,
My contours, my opera,
And nothing.
A schizophrenia,
A delusion,
Or worse,
A socially constructed ideal.

I'll fight it with every fiber
Even if it costs
The long promised happiness
Of a simple, magical and real world.

The world (I'm convinced)
Is none of those three.