Waiting for the theatre.
Not the greasepaint and glitter kind,
The scary scalpel suction kind.
My costume an open backed frump sack,
Out of it,
Tripping on tranqs.
Thirsty, nervous, needy for love,
Searching in strange places
Reaching out to unknown faces,
Will anyone care if I never come back?
Counting the minutes
In blood pressure increments,
I dig the sedation
Please
Give me some for the rest of this year?

And then one day
you looked at yourself
in the mirror and realized
your nose is too narrow and your eyes
too close together
and your mouth is so far
from smiling
and you turned away.

And then one day you looked
at your heart and saw
how heavy it was with deceit
and how tired
and how sick and shriveled
it had become and how it had stopped
beating for anyone
except you, even though
only others were keeping it
alive
and you turned away.

And then
you looked at yourself
and saw how weak you are
and searched
for the resilience and optimism
that used to define you-
You couldn't find them.
And you tried to turn away but you couldn't
not from yourself.

And so you apologized
to those keeping your selfish heart
beating
and held the heat of your hatred
to burn yourself.

The words they slept in shadows,
Unspoken in the night.
When a hand reached forth
With nightshade blade,
To poison anothers plight.

Sweet dreams,
Oh Lord of Lamentations.
Let the aether surround
With reams of false augmentation.
For the sick and the weak
Those we ignore and mistreat
Are no longer eight hours away.
Empires will fall
While we rest and decay
Cerebrally enslaved
To the light of day.

They fear what fear is said to be,
the odds becoming numbers,
an expanse of do's below dont's.

You fear what they have told us to fear,
for the odds have become our evens,
and every wish had become our day,
and our day had become a step closer
to the rebellion of the society.

Our bodies fear what we do not,
and they begin to betray us.
The splitting and crossing had not been followed
and we are ****** along the narrow fear
of death.

But we hold on to the little spindle fibers
and the tiny hands that begin to form.
We have beaten fear
and now they fear us.

The white in your eyes,
are the ages that we still have yet to live,
our youth in a matter of minutes,
gone in their fear of us.

You say we can run away,
but even if we find that place
will we really have escaped?
or are we entering the fear again,
like the slaughter of the barn.
The world with their pitchforks and knives
and us awaiting the day when the walls
are burned.

For if they are frightened by our courage
yet we run in fear,
had fear really gone away?
Had we really beaten it?
or have we only scraped through
the first layer,
of Pandoras ungodly box,
only to jump in the dark with your
hand in mine,
to find happiness
when we land.