I wake with a mango mind.
Brilliant, full of Hope,
without faith. I Rise, and wrestle with the sky.
My arms show no sign of falling off.
I see them,
where they always are, as always,
half dressed in their costume, Weary
at the edge of a of a crosswalk.
Their minds are discolored and contorted,
at odds with their perfect skin.
Their costume, once brilliant as I,
now without Lustre and gleam,
drags in the mud.
They whisper to themselves inside. I never listen, because I have better music.
Their skins peel away, and I shudder and hold mine close.
I pity them in their confusion. Their mind
addled without drugs, just
a mistake, in the massive mechanization of life.
I query the impulses, if they dribble into my pond.
Their cloudy eyes seek mine, their
grotesque hands reach out, their
****** threads threaten to entangle me, their
whispers crash upon my music
and they pump me full of mud.
They beg me to run and warn me to flee,
while desperately clutching at my shoes.
They shudder at my loss
and pity me in my great power.
They state the obvious, screeching
in high tones. They told me
the truth that I knew was a lie, but yet
I couldn't deny. They told me
to take a hammer to my mirror, and then
I might see part of them,