to be real

i don’t want to be 
mad,
but just when 
i can feel normalcy and 
the calm slow release
of built up tensions,
and i breathe and 
my pulse putters 
slowly 
slowly 
to a stop, 
everything flies topsy-turvy,
as in my dreams,
i realize everything is wrong,
i pretend nothing is,
and it works
and i fall into
beautiful rhythms,
you give me some, you beat 
beautiful things 
into me, 
into my mind, 
where impressions are left–
 
but bad things leave impressions too.
hard to swallow things,
making my mind 
swallow itself,
turned inside out
like a glove;
it shows me everything.
 
i don’t want to see it.
it makes me hurt
and i feel pain issue itself
chemically formed,
noxious gas [a blast from the past]
running through my 
length until
trembling, trembling
i rattle and 
hum
soothing words
 
it’s okay
 
but i still dream in the darkness,
and my folds rest in 
turbulent movement ,
eyes fast over images i love
and despise
 
lies
lies
lies
 
i cannot ask anything
that cannot be asked of 
myself
 
but
 
if it can? 
 
what is selfishness,
if i cannot look it in the eye?
i want to call it–
‘thief’,
listen to the sobs
robbing souls of innocence,
reality is faced by the ignorant,
reality is much too sibilant 
and is making them callused,
tough skins;
they get what they want.
 
please,
if i am what you want,
how can i feel those beautiful 
imprints and trace
them 
down my spine and 
over my legs,
under skin
 
but it crawls! 
dark in the corner it shivers,
rattles and hums,
and it whispers–
 
‘you’re too real to come.’ 
 

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