my so-called secret life has become vexing
and the reality fix has become addicting.
upstandingness is on projected overwhelm
yet subtle anger-driven-service is toxic.
emotionality is over extended but under enthused.
the wardrobe of this veiled story line is overused.
where did my self-nudity within loose its sensitivity
to be richly warn and then gladly shared?
inspired interpretations aside,
all the connections wind up
in my personal privated vexing code.
my, if I had, a little black book, is festering
in a digestive tumultous manner.
all others around become mannequins to this unknown.
I do weave a silver thread
and give it the light of day.
maybe I have only dared myself
to become falsely relevant
or important or justified
as a form of joyous internal seething . . .
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