To what do I owe this plight?
Do my crises depend upon
The attainment of some
Dogged sense of perfection
If they are to resolve themselves?
Do my borders keep
The forces within from spilling out
Or do they merely suppress insight?
Is the issue a matter of
Presentation or presentiment?
Am I a Lego or a man?
Must I manufacture myself
Or is it enough to give thanks
For that which is of itself so?
The fires in hell do not compare
To those trouncing my words,
My heart, my road weary legs
Nothing compares to the hate
One can muster in defense of self
Even if that self is only a decoy.