I feel as though the flower of my awareness is bloomed,
And it’s all too much.
I am the picture of a loon,
And it’s never enough.
I am at the same time both apathetic,
And the epitome of elation,
For the news on the wire, which read, “Nothing is real,”
Seemed to me as knowledge goes,
To be a long lost relation.
I am the overwhelmed oddity,
A somewhat left commodity,
Vain, but yet a player of the game,
In which my vanity is wrapped in insanity,
Or at least on the same side of town.
It’s a strange game,
Wherein I get to clown around.
It’s not a tame game for faint hearts,
It’s an insane game for upstarts.
Just the same, it’s the only game in town.
I feel as though the flower of my caringness is bloomed,
And it hurts so bad.
I am being killed by beauty.
I am gashed and sliced open with love,
And the blood of years is rushing out…
To stain the concrete ground red, to bleach in the hot sun,
To wither away slowly, gracefully, like the pages of an old volume.
I am an old and odd volume,
Whose pages of perception have hit the 3-D silver screen,
And it’s all too much,
But it’s never enough.