Something of an Art Form

I've made a art form out being insincere. Of holding my self aloof from the rest of the world because sometimes it doesn't feel real. All my yesterdays amount to not very much today. Haunted by earth quakes, lacerated by the what is and torn by the maybes. Insincere cuz I don't have much I take seriously, when I do take a active interest, you wouldn't like it. No one want my full gaze, like a unholy spotlight from the sun. Nothing tangible comes from these eyes except deep penetration. Kneel and prostrate yourself or rail against me. But do not make me teach you my own very exact version of victory.

Repugnant worries, debauched enchanted mysteries do you think you can get to the deep drawn breath of me? Sighs are for mysteries. Callous, colliding again and again into the the insurmountable wall. Brushing off that dark call. Look close enough and know that I was always there after all. Wanting!


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