You intrigue me with your definitions, euphemisms, lifestyles.
I look in from the outside in earnest,
attempting to think of myself in the same context.
The way you speak to others in your glass box,
how you articulate your thoughts in the confines,
it makes absolute sense and yet none at all.
You fascinate me in so many varying ways,
my overwhelming hyperconsciousness holds on,
contemplating meaning behind what is at best mundane.
For I am one with your box, I play a role in your box
but I have never truly belonged to your box.
The painting that I search for cannot be found here,
it does not reside in an artificially fortified construct,
it lies beyond the wild greenery that awaits my discovery.


Be generous with that dose, I could use a puff of idealism
here in this velvety room filled with musky affection,
no more a detriment to my emotional unwavering than your reality.
I know it to be true, the speed of loneliness siphoning through my veins
at an alarming rate, disavowing my sense of control
and barely keeping my head above the surface
long enough to make out what I need to do.
Yet I roam ceaselessly and away from that place
of ungainly truths, of betrayals and facades
as I no longer desire their love.
Theirs is a false affection,
masked in pretense and expectation,
both of which I have no desire to fulfill.
I am wandering again through the alleys at night,
bright eyes watch my every step,
waiting to proposition me at their precise moment.
I crave the high that awaits at my destination,
a momentary bout of inspiration from someone
I’ve known during the last century,
someone whose hands will lead me away from the light
and into the familiar darkness again.