Don’t ask me again what I want from this life.
You ask me to bear my chest for the knife.
I want far too many things to be listed or labeled.
A life run on ink blood is my curious fable.
My deepest dreams are too precious to entrust to stars.
My passions are too violent to exist without scars.
I am sliced and burned by betrayals and lies.
I am bound up with fiction and tired compromise.
So, I will not explain my dreams that cry out to Lady Fate.
Words leave my soul without a heart to consecrate.
I weep and moan and cry.
I smile, laugh, and sigh.
And the question will linger on even after our final goodbye.


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