Sweetbread

I'm ashamed to admit,
But I believe
That all I want
Is to be liked.
And so, I wait for the morning,
Sit on the fenceposts in the afternoon sun,
Posing for the whole damn world.
What's underneath the flannel shirts and anarchy boots,
Or before that the rainbow colored dresses,
The blue eyes that stare with a light that pierces.

Trying to dig through my own walls I down
bottles of vodka and strip off my clothes
and lay down and escape myself,
still staring self consciously as we writhe
with pleasure and a taste of acceptance.

My wrists look like they belong to a person,
A real person, with real feelings, a real life,
While I sit in this puppet wondering what
The master
Somewhere deep inside the recesses of my brain
Is wondering.
What do I know that I don't know I know,
When for so many years I
played the trumpet to the
tune of another song?
 
I wish someone could read my mind
Because I can't.
As many layers as seep beneath the surface,
I can't see past the reflections.

I'm lonely because I can't
Find myself within this body
Someone said was me. 

The End

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