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Intermission, Rumination.

Self-contempt
keeps me in check,
ensures the ego
never forgets its place.
It casts a long, dark shadow
that I cannot erase.

All I’ve seen…

I do not hate myself,
just the lie I’ve become,
the fictions we all embrace
for reasons that continue
to evade me.

All I’ve been…

Peel back the skin,
find the center within.
What the fuck
do I want out of this life?

Quick, before the tour ends.

Years pass me by
with little to show,
still an exhibitionist
in my own way.
An artist needs
this to grow.

Passion’s the path
I could follow to the tomb,
leave me feeling that I truly
have not wasted my time here.

Why can’t I move?
Is it laziness or fear
of the truth or a ruse?

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