Here I am, bones and scars
I am as real as the moon and stars
It’s okay that you don’t understand
It isn’t something that I demand
Just something devoutly to be wished
A deep desire, an inward shift
People are counterfeit fabrications
Made up of lies and medications
They put on masks of fraudulent invention
Then strut around with airs of ill intention
Perplexed I sit in amazement and trepidation
At the crude way of behavior and imagination
What is it they are so afraid to share
What’s wrong with being genuine, why is it so rare?
I think I know why they can’t be real.
People are overcome and shaken to feel.
I can understand such a fear
But to face our despair, isn’t that why we are here?
So being real, while it is probably favorably contemplated
Is looked at as a weakness and one is highly emasculated
Where then does our value lie?
If only inside we can cry?
In this world of perversion and offense
Truth can be harsh and feelings intense
But if fear is what keeps us locked in our cages
There is nothing to accomplish, sadly only more stages
I cannot acclimate to this type of life
I don’t think we are meant to terry in strife
Can you translate for me the curious practice
Of Keeping people aside, being cuddly as a cactus?
This is something I will never be.
I can only be real. I can only be honest. I can only be