Truest of true..

    Questions of sanity Plague my
"mad man's internal".
Dialogues run rampant,
Bouncing wall to wall within
The shell of a skull where,
A fractured brain causes this sound mind
To feel as though it's out of place
In this brokedown palace of a body...
Striking deep this essence
To release a bellow of eternal purity..
A wail for solace,
Shaking the very foundation of this body,
Dissolving the bond of the smallest molecules,
That form this body.
Deteriorating this decorated body
To bust at the seams,
Unable to provide proper vessal to house
Such an unattainable essence.
    As hues of deepest blues radiate intense
From this broken vessel, a profound sense of
Lost in introspection
Washes over my physique.
Replacing a mask of complacency,
Normally perched precariously
Atop the flesh of my face.
Though the masks of me are many,
One stands bold, among the others.
The deteriorating mask of "Wasted youth with 24 ct pain pinstriping".
Though, I know in my heart of hearts,
In the deepest hidden crevices of my soul,
It's not healthy
That aside from once or twice,
I've never shown the pure, naked flesh
Of my face.
Now, in truest realization,
I know what I've always known, but never really knew.
In absolute humility, this American Fuck Up
Gazes transfixed in the mirror,
At my face,
Into my cleansed, windows to my soul.
Right into my eyes,
And for the first time I truly understand. "This above all. To thine own self be true..."
For the first time in my -lost in confusion- life,
I see me...

Jason Brierly
aka Intricate B
aka American Fuck Up
aka American poet
aka Wasted Youth
aka Me

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