But it’s so easy to fit me into a Myers Briggs,
Have a dig,
See what you can find of me in you,
See what you can find of you in me,
Hmmm let’s see,
Oh he likes poetry,
Yay, same as me,
Oh he likes books,
He likes, he likes, he likes,
Double tap, I like his psyche.
But would you walk with me into the ward,
Straight jacket, sit with me and not get bored.
Would you fear your life when my fists are raised,
And am punching holes through walls in fits of rage.
Would you want to see me bow and prostrate, a total contradiction,
Of what you assumed I was, of your depiction.
Five times I recluse into my soul,
Daily, and I come out anything but whole.
It’s meant to be an exercise of devotion,
But all I fester is utter revulsion.
3 thoughts on “52 SHADES OF FUCKED”
Maybe because you’re expecting too much of the other, to search for you so deeply. But what about you? Has your soul ever ventured to answer the questions you pose above?
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I hold humans to a higher standard, apparently that’s misplaced….
A higher standard than what?
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