Distortions.

I like that word.
Distorted images in a child's mirror,
Trying to see myself for who I am. What does
the distortion tell you?
Who makes the specifications,
Who defines?
I've been so many people
Virtual realities colliding,
Discovering the truths
Hidden beneath the mask,
Looking for several sides
To every story--
Digging deeper within myself
Trying to see what it's all about...
Laughing outloud
To myself so no one else
Can hear again
For the first time
The last time
This time
Every time? Question
me with answers, I'll answer
you with questions
And we'll both be right.
Releasing the ranting, raving
Lunatic inside,
Letting the ugliness show;
Displaying with childlike pride
The dark, sticky things I picked
From the nasal passages of my Soul.
Finally becoming free
In my own mind/
of my own mind/
with my own mind.
Listening to the sounds made
When the mighty hand of thought
Smacks the forehead
Of my sub-conscious--
Reaping the Fertile Fields
Of Mind and Soul,
Renovating the temple,
Gathering up the thoughts
Pried from my brain
By my big mental crowbar--
Finally feasting upon
These gourmet fruits of labor,
Feeding the sick Soul
Of reality's Dark Love Child.
Begging the tightly wound ball of
insecurities
To open up, breath easy, fear nothing, love all,
And live freely.
Giving final permission
To come out and play again
and again and again
And knowing that,
Finally,
Life will never be the same
Again.