F^ck.

 

 

 

Dusty fan and a warm wind;

Artificial yet so very comforting.

Sweat dripping down my forehead;

Hazy images, unfocused brain.

 

Am I what they say I am?

 

Who is the static?

Can you hear,

The silence within the static?

Can you feel,

The pain within the silence?

Can you understand,

The numbness within the pain?

 

Am I who they want me to be?

 

Bono and his microphone,

MLK and his bullet,

Bacon and his brush,

Joe and his cubicle,

Nameless with his degree.

 

Who is the Riddler?

How deep does the rabbithole go?

Why this choking feeling?

Why the whys?

 

FUCK.