Clarity

Poetry is the language of dreamers, Though I no longer dare to dream. My nightmares are plagued with monsters, And the most terrible is me. For are they not the product of ideas That manifest inside my mind? For all things in our universe Descend into chaos, Descend into madness, unglue, and unwind And as my mind decays, And my sense of self slips away, A biological lobotomy For reasons I can't say But faith is of no comfort Because, for all that I can tell I'd still have probably lost my mind As I burned in hell And everything that we believe Is that which we perceive as true, And these perceptions, our convictions, Our commitments to pursue On a grain of sand, flowing perpetually Through the endless void of space Even if your body burns, And your memories erase. Truth is the currency of the dead, And a burden on the living So what truths do you hold in your heart That are still left unforgiven? What is the sum of the evil you've done? Look at yourself. What have you become? For I am my most fervent accuser, And my war bears no winners or losers. And as I look upon those trivial lives, Squandered in pursuing a desire to be I am reminded of my composition, How, where, and why that I am positioned, In that, which is composed partially of me. But why is it we all submit To the desires of forces that be? For I can, and I will, For I am willing to kill For these freedoms that belong to me.