clay monkey

Annoying myself, boring myself, how could anyone want to be with me? Caged by my own insecurities and isufficiencies, cut off from the real reality because I believe in a reality that's an annoying, boring, self-loathing me.



Tell me there's more. More to life than this fake reality. Than plastic faces and force-filled embraces. More to it than me stuck in a self-made cage in a zoo in a world looking in and seeing a fake molded-monkey.



More to it than a slave slaved to self-imposed fakery, and an undercover leader lead by fear.



Please break the bars around the clay-faced me-monkey, and then break the clay. Because I know what no one else knows: That I'm great and unique with undiscovered talents. I know what everyone knows: That I'm dumb and boring, unworthy of time.



I judge me even though there is nothing to judge but fake me, and well, that's not really me. If only I knew. If only they knew the real bleeding me; The uncaged and living free-in-the-trees me. But that would require bleeding rivers of vulnerable red.



Real and vulnerable monkey: that's what I want to be. What I can't be.