The ideal self and actual self,

conflicting they will be.

While pressed by my body, unto my soul,

an imprisoned man is all I see.

Portraying publically the pedestal I preach,

in darkness, stoic, I'm asleep.

Fists pound from the inside of my torso,

to be, what I am, so I think.

A bloody war rages on, I'm mean, look at me.

Until the golden bowl is broken, I'll never be free.

Like clocks each night, they tick,

I will survive by unnatural gifts, unrelieved.

My only hope is to follow Christ's heart,

to believe HIs plan, that I cannot see, I cannot see.