They’re psychoanalyzing my pride.
I’m ignoring the obvious: a war vet with ear plugs on the fourth of July.
You’re that pyrotechnic glow on my mind.
This memoir is a token of antisocial expression.
Our vermilion bond was anecdotal at best, demoralizing.
You’ll only ever see it as a victimless crime.
siphoning bits and pieces of our symphony’s chime
Sitting in my oval office with petitions to sign
writhing in inconsistency not filling in shoes fit to size.
Concealing true identities, revealing my shrine
The answer is rhetorical, when I ask who am I?
Enough of the superstition.
My existential crisis is to feel like I kiss your iris every time I blink your eyelids.