You’re crashing into the spaces between every inch of rationality,
And it’s almost everything i coulda hoped of conjuring up myself.
I set down the glass, walk out, i put on my glasses And look around.
You have a funny way of making me blind And asking me to figure out where i am.
Defying the logic that repells every desire, in spaces between kisses, beats between hearts, in the mirror that makes me look like a child before you,
there are the hopes that wish otherwise,
the mind that wonders What is real anymore,
the dented soul that needs glue,

And Then there was me. . .

I will not sell myself to a life i don’t want or a reality i can’t touch.
Why must i be crucified by the conscience of ailing desire in my feeble attempt not to be me.

Love me Hate me. . .

For once, is it ever really all about me?