My Skin

My Skin


I can't break out of this skin
The layers are too tight
I'm stuck
And quite lost in this cruel maze of mind
That paints the grass blue instead of green.
Yet I'm here in reality
but I think I'm dying.
They tried to tame me-
Mould me into something just like them; a waxwork person.
Nothing in particular.
A Simulacrum.
Blind to the furtive doors of this World.
That hide the Tempest behind.
But I refuse to eat their false Ambrosia
With a side order of Lies
-Instead I push out against my skin.
And make my bed in the clouds.
I'm a fugitive of the Media Monster
That fights to drown out the thoughts of raw imagining
and cage my wildish mind.