in the strong pulse of my limp left wrist
I feel the very life of me hiding behind
'The Wall Of This'
where do I come from
have I always been me
I am so uncertain of every imaginable thing
that with myself I constantly disagree
I make too much out of things that make no sense
and out of every possible facade
I prefer the active use of pretense
when I am blue I take comfort deep beneath the folds
of colors dark and extra special green
I buy up truth at simple face value
but usually its sight unseen
I leave myself wide open to many crude forms of
abrasiveness and its strip meant of self esteem
leaves my dusty ego wiped smooth and clean
how can I explain my actions where there is no
real reason why
it is possible I know to live through certain
circumstances and still be a victim of virtual
homicide
giving up every part of yourself just to say you
at least tried
in myself there is room left in which to confide
instead of facing my fear I am releasing it
for I don't have the adequate energy that's needed
to throw a temper tantrum or fit...............
(written Feb 14,1992 am)