Memoirs of a Messiah

I hear the voice, once again,
Of that South American messiah,
Hiddien underneath a hoodie,
Ignoring the world with the help of music and memories less than fortunate.
He’s reminding me,
That’s it not so bad to open up.
Some call it emotional masochism,
But the same circle calls chance by a personal name.
The same type of people that want to believe that their world is orderly,
And more importantly, ordered by them.
This is not a pain!
This is not settling.
This is me opening up old scabbed over wounds.
Questions hurt foundations,
Real questions, that is.
They throw you off of your pedestal so cemented,
And people remember the fall.
The agony associated with the chaos.
But they forget what they remember when they fall:
That this world,
As we call it,
is more aptly a scene.
It’s manufactured.
Our consent, our relationships, our ideas.
These are all arrived at through careful planning,
Planning that goes on outside of your mind.
The fall,
It purges us.
It starts to chip out the mortar.
It starts making holes for our truer selves to peek through,
To get reacquainted with the light,
To yearn for that sweet mistake,
To long for the guilt of free actions coupled with the consequences.
People say destruction is a bad thing?
I’m not inclined to believe.
I have a hard time walking by a skyscraper without kicking it.
It may seem futile,
But it’s the start,
Not the end,
That matters more.

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