I write,
wondering if I’m meant for writing
Fighting, to find my purpose
I prefer this,
to exist and transcend
to extend beyond the surface
mist of daily routines
between these organic machines
Figurines, animated but not in reality
And this state of superficial mentality
Originality is lost in this
abyss of recursiveness
gone berserk

I work,
questioning if I’m meant to work
A clerk, I sell nothing but the way
The way of the self perfection
Correction, I mean self reflection
Direction by asking oneself why
Why am I here, what is my path?
Who am I really?
Silly to ask?
Or sillier
not to remove my mask.

I play,
curious if I should play
day in and day out
doubt surrounds me
free to make my own decisions
incisions into societies artificial
sense of security.
Purity, I seek
week after week
to this
I kiss
this
undercover struggle
in a juggle of truth and lies
spies and collisions
revisions of freedom
numb with artificial visions
and provisions
goodbye

I die,
Not knowing why
Why I was blind
To the answers
Dancers without an idea
Of why we danced
Entranced in the shallow,
hollow waters
of cause and reason
and seasoned truth.
The clarity of my youth
never seems to come round
just an empty sound
bound to the false
waltz
of humanity.
Insanity has taken me.
Me and my identity.

I am no longer I