Throughout the confusion, I've come to the conclusion identity's an illusion.
So what can you do with it? Abuse it and lose it, even refuse it. The only thing you really can't do is choose it.
It doesn't matter though, because it doesn't exist. Reality's fixed, it's hit or miss. You're just a mix of what your chemical makeup permits. 
Dare to contradict what you choose to depict, once your psyche splits you're knee deep in conflict.
It'll hit like a bitch when it's all in plain sight. Reality bites, you just can't win the fight.
Can't see the light when your vision is dim, your soul's covered in skin, and your ambition's wore thin.
You don't need to ask for permission to sin, just so you can succumb to submission again.
A Christian is speaking, I'll listen to him just as soon as he can trace God's footprints in the sand. 

The End

9 comments about this poem Feed