But are we even real, though?
It's never been like second nature for me.
Reality may be cruel.
But I'll make my own.
In my mind's eye.
Where I can fade.
Off into the darkness of a sunset, too early .
Melancholy in the new moons light.
Sulking to the vibes of sympathetic souls.
Searching for the light.
In the dark side of PTSD.
Disassociative press and inflamy for rolling with nature.
But I'll have my friends.
That you can't see.
In a place where everybody likes me.
I'm crawling out of my skin.
Incinerating, internally for eternity.
The srategic train wreck express has been derailed.
And I have a new ego.
We are Sacrelicious.
Two tumbling Ivans, at least in him, exist, he could tell
One is soft, easily provoked to pink goosebumps, all over
When his lady love comes dancing, in a body hugging dress
There is the well known other,visceral,yes, "Ivan the terrible"
At the eruption of ******* frenzy,he who roars like a beast.
Perhaps few more too are on the prowl, all beyond the pale
If he challenges with a firm resolve,they may show up!
— The End —