Self assurance is in motion.
Breeding through uncertainty,
the precepts that lay before my sight
are unprocurred insights
into an abysmal blackness that is not all engulfing,
strangling, sentimental, uncommunicative in ourselves.
It is a technicality.
The lesson is so clear before me,
yet my intentions fall down the drain.
I proceed to impede and realize;
I'm not the one for me.
I am unsure and impure,
and I cannot find the cure.
Can it be true that
I am not alive just for you?
Reaching out to touch what is real,
one last time I must learn to feel.
I will break myself one last time,
and that truly is my last crime.
And am I self assured?
How else could anything matter?
When it starts to topple down,
I find myself is what shatters.