I am hearing the words, those words of concern, again...
“Babe, you okay? ... You’re looking so pale?”...
—I would rather don the tattered clothes,
Becoming cloaked by beautiful truths;
A ragged layer upon pure awareness,
In the moment of my lowest lows...
Than be caged behind an inner-frame facade,
Draped under shiny lie coated threads;
Clothed; Pinned, and in awe...
Beneath denials up-turned nose,
As such on thoughtless heads;
Their garments rubbing... rubbing... RAW.
Mirrors seem to agree.
In my defense:
—I practice and perfect; Emotional Dismemberment.
—Subscribe to borderline Paranoia.
—Clip long—time taught, and sought after; Heart Strings.
—Tread softly on, and in, the matters of Trust.
—Engaging instead, wholeheartedly,
in that scorching art;
The Art of Lust.