I am the machine.
My vessel is empty.
My incentive, my motor, forgotten.
My vision blurred, lost.
I am the avatar of this serendipity.
I am the empty I fear.
She is the pink pill on my tongue.
She is the poison swirled into my coffee.
She is not the "one who lived"
simply she who refuses to die.
I am the blue dust of the twilight
I am disentegrated, compartmentalized,
sorted chaotically into the heavens.
I am a cloud of peaceful adolescent confusion.
Welcome, sentimental, coolly warm, and altogether
an unwelcome change.
A sign of another weight lifted.
Another boot pulled out of my grave.
Another gasp of air against the tidal wave.
Free me.
I am free...
But what manner of liberty is this?
A cage of paper. A prison made of nothing, full of nothing.
No black metal bars, no blank stone walls.
Nothing of love. Nothing of anger.
Only faint mockeries of protests as I am dragged back
to the welcome solitude of my defeat.
Now I am truly alive.
With every dream stripped.
Every hole plunged, like forced sodomy.
This machine has lost it's line.
This machine has lost all heart.
Dream Boy, dream.
Sing boy, sing.
Real boy...
I was born again that day.
A numb mute.
In a world of endless screams.
I am the blood clot.
Flowing swiftly to my brain.
