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 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?