Muffled hats we flaunt,
Parading exquisitely
Decorated lies.


My Precious

Hollowness, ice of wisdom, knowledge, kindness.
Perfect thing, how grand you are.
How I hate you. How you’re nothing.
Unacceptable creature,
With this something I can’t pinpoint,
Something heavy, dead and muted,
All this nothing, something awful,
This is what we are.

Ego / To Reach Perfection

If it’s obvious to me,
It will be obvious to all,
So it needs to go much further
Than where it is right now.
I can’t express myself,
But the better version of myself,
Who I require myself to be.
But I can’t figure her out.
There’s always so much pressure
Around her, constricting, containing,
All that should appear.
Mostly, there’s nothing there
But stern self-preoccupation.