Sliding but a single thumbnail across the soap swollen, translucent bubble of our engulfed white suburban, upper middle-class town merely ruses the minds trapped within comfortable temptation.
Body, mind, and spirit each remain as detached entities:
the body, as the inadequate stability,
the mind, as the forgotten collection of rugged nihilism,
and the spirit, as the peaceful injector, yet all three pieced together for the sake of sheer necessity.
Always count on the critic justly gaping,
lacking ears to listen,
despite his or her own burdened heart,
for we all have a natural yearning to compound our strangers into uneven stacks as we rest triumphantly with our suggested medallions.
I am the critic of the wounded and lost martyrs.
I am the victim of the fearfully broken.
Blame my claws, for without I would not peel scabs.
Blame by scarred eyesight and faithful health.
Our blood is our nearest possession we have heartening our natural plea for a sense of belonging.
Flatten my plea, Oh God, for I am a selfish sinner.