The Line.

Did I choose the tumult of oncoming madness or accept it as though it loved me as I was?
The reality continues to become a mystery to the sweetness of disaster and words, so many words, vivacious in pattern and expressive in colorful flavour.
Can I stop this burst of unlived strange-life to look into the world, to see my sister as she is instead of how I know is now?
Am I too "mentally-challenged" to understand the ways of life and false pretenses? Do the things I see and do extend the boundaries of the invisible rope?
Did I ever have a line that could be crossed, or did I never have the chance to hop it?
The Father I know is a Father I twist into horribly bitter imagery. He knows of the shape he molded me into like taffy, but I know I'm not him, I will never be.
My wish is to be like my sister... The sister I care for and the sister who cares for me in bittersweet ways, always there in the times of darkened tar and flame.
If I become Father may she cut my red ribbons with no sympathies for my image will be a devil.