It’s not just his evening drinking
Drowning out the make-believe day he lived
It’s how he sees himself, or doesn’t
It’s the endless anesthetizing lies
That strip him of his real skin
Leaving just the flawless plastic sheath
He draws around himself every morning
As he mindlessly shaves at the mirror
He doesn’t get it
That life is much simpler, and definitely easier
Than keeping all the lies straight
Like the thick noose about his neck
He claims is a Charvet necktie
My only regret is I haven’t the guts to tell him
People like you best when you’re real
And that they smell bent truths, like rats
Crawling from a liar’s rectum
Desperately trying to get inside you
To turn you into something you’re not
He keeps looking
Stumbling through the shadows–
Over the mound of empty bottles in the kitchen
He hides there–in the bottles
Swimming down each one
Hoping he’ll find the truth
At the bottom of the bottle, or anything
Even the cold, smooth white pine box
They’ll bury him in someday
I wish I had the guts to tell him
I’m just like him–
Lost, afraid, lonely
Seeking a way out of the entangled web
I’ve spun, and called my life
Maybe if I told him, he’d wake up
Maybe if I told him, I’d hear my own words
And I could be who I really am
Poetic Alchemist 