He was convinced art would divulge darkness from him that no one could handle
In keeping his darkness, he lost me
Perhaps he thought he would lose himself if he let someone else have it?
A diagnosis is poison – it’s finite when finite does not exist.
It’s a cancer patient thinking there is only one answer, not seeking other answers.
It’s a phobia of negligible ratio that someone else likely made up.

He was trying to be perfect –
Scripting a persona to which no other was privy
I wanted his grit – the raw effulgent
I wanted him more than he wanted himself

The prescriptions knew him better than himself –
He readily swallowed the silica coated hurdle
Prolonging acceptance – exploration
Indemnified by a system seeking newspapers
Draped over ***** puddles