Confrontational,
dude’s really quite sensational,
but there’s very little matter
found inside his dome.
Confrontational—
it’s the opposite of beautiful.
Then again, he never worries
about whether he’s attractive.
Confrontational—
really not that calculable;
however, he always seems to
tip his very ****** hand.
Confrontational—
not quite the same as sensible,
but he is usually the one that
tends to buck the norm.
Confrontational,
doesn’t think that he is beatable;
nevertheless, he who hands him his
lunch has other things in store.
Confrontational—
it’s the converse of lovable,
yet some tend to insist that this
is his fancy way of flirting.

In this strange state of affairs where bohemia helps us ignore the great intangible house of cards that somehow keeps billions of us fed
In my own little world, made up of success after success and **** up after **** up, there's a barrier that stays the course whatever roof I'm under
While I don't attach my creativity to it anymore, it occupies the same space, creating irrational from the rational, developing natural disorder
Hollowing out the moment so I can feel it as a poison later, a fantasy of who I should of been
But despite this.. old parasite I still hold onto my optimism, still build and learn and deconstruct and can see my success in a fruit that tastes so ******* good

I don't like who it makes me, I don't like the waste of the good times, the emotional challenge it sets me, the self involved ******* who doesn't know his own mind well enough to not have the next drink or to get away from the screen for that extra hour
But.. its something that shapes who I am, and I guess I can thank for creating the desire to improve and understand the context of every cell and mental directive
I just.. its coming clear that there is a permanence attached to this, and a mystery that needs solving, habits that need changing
And if I ever want to succeed in that unattainable sense of zen I'm so ******* desperate for, or at least close enough for long enough to let someone I love know why they should feel the same way

I need to accept the uncomfortable truth of the disorder
I need to let it shape my life, to keep in mind, to take life in the context of it
And accept that I'm not done with my struggles to be the man I want to be
I guess we never are

But.. if my art is so obvious to me, if my profession is a definite thing
If the people around spark mutual smiles and every now and then a cute one wanders over for a talk despite the unwritten rules saying she shouldn't
If everything else in life can be perceived and solved
Then this can become beatable, manageable

And maybe, just maybe
I'll get a chance to really relax

Shattered windows, broken dreams,
seemed to be all that was left of me,
and as I walk around this splintered wood,
I start to think of all that should be,
but never got to be,

As I walk through this broken home,
I think of all the pain,
I have come to know,
and I look up at the moon,
how brightly it glows,
and what does this come to show?

Dawn breaks in this sad place,
and a bit of hope floods,
this broken home,
rids it of all the pain it has come to know,
and what does all this come to show?

Happiness is reachable,
and depression is beatable,
as long as you follow through

I find myself forgetting more and more frequently
that the world I have painted on the walls of my cell
is not reality

Death is a boy to me
An ageless boy with brown, curly hair and golden skin
He is an egotistical trickster, three steps ahead of me
Cruel, unfair, unfeeling
And for some reason, intrigued by me and the messy Life I breathe

In my head, I can make deals with him
In my head, he protects me, gives me choices, even as he pulls me closer
In my head, he is beatable
In my head, Death and I are falling in Love

But though it makes Death bearable to think of,
to believe it has characteristics it cannot is dangerous

Death loves me no more than it loves all of us
An embrace at the end of agony
It will not speak to me, it will not listen
It owns my Life and there is no deal I can make to change that

Yet

There is something beautiful about the boy in my head
Death a life of its own
A vision I can't escape
The walls around me painted the endless black of the stars

Dark draped and pliant as ink; resting on the pinpricks of stars and their steel pins.
Wrapping  and bundling us in a pose of obstinance and theory; still alive but inert with the weight of nothingness.

Seeking and pulling into a container of black soup, the strength of fear was no match for sharing.
Once, a race began to meet on the other side of spatial creation; opposite but circling like sexed schoolmates on a crisp autumn day.

Time as full as galaxies and their grandchildren, never slowing to consummate a dream.
Air still beatable, vapor fogging the porthole of eternity to leave only a thought. Many thoughts in lineup, creating a community of ideas and filling the vessel with voice.

Moving, transcended outside into the film, looking back to the throng; mightily laughing at the joy of one.
Gulping stars like candy and dust from the crest of curling waves; removing the glue and melting into an orb of amniotic stew.

Knowing one, being one, as one.

I can sleep on my pillow of love and eternal travel.

We are
the unbeatable,
unachievable,
most believable
horse in the race.

I am
the beatable,
the achievable,
the least believable
horse in the race.