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I don't believe I am going insane, but
If I am it's in a marketable way
Commodity of pain, self-perpetuated (I'm asking)
I'm playing roulette every time.

Trying to ignore those stereotypical lurches
As though the delirium would
put me in a better way
I am found as I am founded, fantastical
I have written on the subject.

I will starve myself for the holiday
I will run towards the smell of smoke
I will lap the waves in the opposite direction
Back to the where and, I can only hope, to the whence
Turning my ankle in the sand.

I can island myself through the winter
We haven't had heat in this house for seven days
I have my ink, blood, and bone, and genetics
And a dying love for a dying art -- the love
of the chase.

It is a point of frustration with myself
How long does it take to be
Young and loud and out of place?
Everyman everyday is a mindless hurricane
Lying life down to stamp it into a scrapbook
Let it sleep all day.

When all I ever wanted was to be a
Grand, unconditional waste
Divisive and deceptive and disappointed and loved achingly
In stasis, in fabric, in unsynthesized comfort
And I'm not leaving the shore this time
Not until I'm ready to find you again.

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