A self obsessed being looks at himself and he asks

Why do you this?
Why do you loose yourself in memories and refuse to be found?

There are people looking for you, arms out to help.

"But they are not her, and she is found where I am lost"

He replied to no one.

It's not an issue of ordinary old head-bashed-off-the-dash hookery.
It's something more.
Not like the something before.
It can be answered lysergically,
I swear it,
I've seen it and I've been one with two and every other number so I swear I must've been it.

It was so cold, the learning.
Colder than the yearning.
Knowing nothing's what it seems yet it is everything at once.


And I cannot be contradicted because my evidence is infinite.
If you'd just take the time to sit and spit silence for a split second, you'd know.
Part of listening is thinking of a response.

And you might not stand on corners like the forlorn father mourners but you too are just a ***** for lonely men.

I live a synthetic life.
Fabricated are my thoughts.

My feelings are plastic;
Brittle, though they are strong.

I can feel however I want to feel
And do whatever I like.
This, my friend, is the beauty
Of living a synthetic life.

It's why if I would like to speak with god,
I may do it lysergically.
And it's why I've never felt an ounce of pain,
Not even during surgery.

If I want to be the king,
I don't even need a throne.
All I need is a tiny bit of powder up my nose.
And with the pills that I may buy
With my synthetic money.
I may feel synthetic love,
Even alone;
How funny.