Masquerading apart of myself, through the ingenious work of humor and lightheartedness.
Defining me is as hard to come by, as the pain I claim, and the wicked nostalgia i'm living through.
When I've forgotten, it lingers behind my toothy grin.
When I remember, I count my belongings for equivalence.
Not the smell of the decayed,
Or the tangibility my body explores has abandoned me.
It settles idly behind another configuration I project.
It demands my voice, and a forlorn shelter that can survive nothing, only the one that weaves its fineness across my neck.
I want to be and to live.
So is the contradicting affirmation of life.
My heart demands connectivity to activate my bones.
But I cannot without different form.
And I can through my care.
I hold fragments of my disappointments, and I clutch serenity with rationality.
I separate the word we, because it creates discomfort.
I know in my heart, we have not grown together.
You stand farther in our wholesome talks, and I watch you tred upon the waters in the moonlight of which I stray.
But I will hold you close without anything to keep me warm.
Because I battle myself in all meetings, and clothe myself without being hidden.
It is turbulent, the way I delude.
It is peaceful, when I surpass.
The irrationality of my being shields me from the walk I was born into, to face happiness is a frightening cause.
But to not define pain, and it still be there is deafening and cruel to my awareness.
