Walk with me as I regale you with the tale you missed.
The first time I told you it didn't hold you
And I dropped the subject
Rather than subject myself to the judgment
Of what the judge meant in my mind
When he said, "fix your face. You talk too much."

My face, my face, the furthest place
from who I've been and what I've seen.
I've lived behind, I have resigned
From counting on the mounting throng
Of expression and repression
Of what it wants to say.

You hold me since you told me that you cared,
But I was scared,
But didn't wonder who was under thrall or hope
In dark, I grope for something real,
But I can't deal.
I'll never heal because I feel 

Everything.

And when I sing of release, release,
At least the energy will never be enough
To bluff or cut the fluff of subtlety.

Who am I? & Who I am — a man.
I can withstand much more than you, or I think.
Beyond instinct, the bubbling ideas
Will never see us unclothed
By lexical dissectable phonetic
Through genetic inherited despair.

It is so cold, ancient, old,
But to behold the precious gold
Beneath the mold, left uncontrolled,
Burrowed and holed up in a dust-up,
Building rust up and crust up to my throat.
I must just note that when I wrote
That to cannote
That the denotative innovative bricolage
Of imitative, emulative,
Reconstructing while deconstructing
Or instructing and constructing what's obstructing
While elucidating through the hating,
Throwing shading, anticipating
Another day of contemplating a rest
I'll never see but experience
the weariness of realization
And quantization of consciousness.
It's all a mess, but I confess —
This is my nest.

This is my nest.