I draw a picture of an illusion,
Something so invariably unreal,
That I look like a maniac for seeing it,
Illusion or reality is hard to tell,
When down in the depths you are so drowned,
I paint a portrait of minimalism,
To accentuate my allure to elusion,
I feel it pulling me from behind,
From my blood, my tendons, and sinews,
I am drawn to the few things I know I can’t have,
And I maniacally chase after them,
Day and night,
I sculpt a figure of abstinence,
A David’s model of what I’ve built a life on,
I pick the sides with a chisel,
And pride myself in my virginity,
My untainted, unputrid, and unravaged self,
I feel the need to be wrecked, be broken, and violated,
But I love the view from my self-righteous hill,
And I need this frustration,
To keep me focused.
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