Strange Realities

I was warned about stranger danger.

Strange equals bad

Bad equals evil

Evil equals torment

Torment to whatever fucks people up;

To the point that they need to be silenced

 Into a prison cell of thinking and spoken expression.




Where am I?



But what if I become the stranger

When I stare into the mirror

On the far side of the aged wall of my bedroom?



They tell you to run,

to scream,

To find help that's always waiting there for you;

Always waiting to become your savior

So, what if I reach out to touch the seemingly,

 oh-so, convincing landscape of life?


Reflections or projections

I guess that's what we all have to decide;

Which is worse,

I'd rather not know.

But here I am pondering, pondering about

Ripples and splits and points to problems

Or pointless problems that aren't even problems at all;

Just figments of a replayed, frayed film

Just waiting to be burned in the next passing of inefficient moments of revelation and revolution



I say we decide, but any choice isn't really a choice at all;

For crashed glass on my tile bathroom floor is just one ending of the story.

Who's to say I'm not a stranger in my own narrative when there are billions?


My speech is the hard to swallow pill

That you keep placing in different cabinets to forget

So you don't have to yield to it

And feel it's unforgiving realities








Am I forgotten yet?

Or can we start the next story?

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