Some days, I masquerade as my own masquerade,
Chasing myself through my dreams,
Even into the waking world

On those days, Fear is the only well I know of,
And I am a thirsting man in a scorching desert.

Still, I Arcana Chronicles my way forward,
I shove my hands into the whirlwind of my grief and madness,
Grasp the jagged edges of my sanity.
I bleed onto the promise of tomorrow and scream,
"I am not only the wanting and Fear,
The Fear is merely a sliver of ME!"

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My voice bears laughter,

It is a basket that carries a smile.

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Whenever I think to bow,
To speak in the language of too tired,
Kaiser shakes awake my anger,
Intensifies the storm beneath my skin until it rattles my bones,
Shifts the tectonic plates of my being in defiance.
He shoves the word 'NO' down my throat until it comes back out as a roar,
Stares at my face in the mirror and says, 'we will not be conquered.'
I reply, 'we will not be bound.'

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My face has begun to look like the desolation that occurs after two armies battle,

I am two nations at war with one another,

A soldier at home screaming in time to the echoes of bombs going off between his ears

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She knew she was lost. Knew it as surely as she knew her own face. Her heart wasn't supposed to be this silent. Her mind wasn't supposed to be this empty. Her eyes weren't supposed to see this clearly.
Her soul was cold, and phantom teeth chattered in absence of emotional warmth. But her spine was lined with steel. And her eyes were clear. She stared at people and could instantly see their worth. She knew what the sum of the collective equated to, and it was nothing. Nothing to her, and nothing to the darkness she carried.

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My anger is a living beast,
Swaying side to side, it hypnotises me,
Coils itself 'round my throat,
Speaks with my voice

I say speaks when I really mean roars,
It kisses my forehead,
Tells me I'm safe.
I forget my name.

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Willst thou make a liar out of me
Oh Lord?

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BUT I DON'T WANT TO BE

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My church tells me not to doubt my faith,
I ask what I'm to do if my faith doubts me
I'm afraid God doesn't believe in me,
So I don't believe in me.

There are times joy feels like an underage girl,
An object I must not touch lest I am castigated.
Sometimes I am the underage person,
She will not touch me.

I am not a bad person,
Ignoring my deep distrust of the good people.
I tell joy these things,
She will not touch me.

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Is it alright to miss someone if that person is yourself?
Does it necessarily take four arms to make a hug?
Will my feet ever stop dancing to the song of my own misery?
Will my tongue ever stop having to tell two-word untruths?

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