I've waited too long to set my boundaries
and now I seem as if a car alarm that is too sensitive,
having complaint at every street corner.
I go off at the twitch of your finger tips,
and the ride home
music too soft to hear the bass
in silent passing mirage.
This is what a psychiatrist once told me.
I sat with him for an hour,
diagnosed a label
that did everything but set me free.
I've taken to sleeping in longer
my dreams are finally those I wish I lived in,
not torturous of your only sin,
but filled with crowd-surfing
They seem to get more complex
the more I spend time by myself,
redefining the worth of touch.
Is it so bad that I feel the currents
A higher sense of understanding
everything, how it relates
to my progression.
I can see your flaws so bluntly,
and offer them up with tact,
but I would offend you.
Am I an Android;
a sponge of analytics
ringing out the condensation
of what I intake.