Mirror

I've seen him today, it's the first time. Told him i had him figured, i have no idea if he understood that, why should he.... because he's more like me?
... oh come on!
Hormones talking in place of whatever should normally be there. Chemical imbalance.
I told her once, about love and chemical imbalance, i wanted her to think i was witty.
As it turns out, all emotions are related to chemical imbalance. She had all this figured, long before i did.
A virtual node, followed by verbal confirmation and a farewell axiom, and that was it.
I think i hate him... why?
Because he shows me that I'm not unique, the next mass produced gadget in the line.
"i would like the one on the left please... no, no... the other one.... yes that's it"...."look what i bought from wall-mart daddy, for just nine niny nine"
How could i put up with that?
And yet where is that damnable capably for hatred when you need it? where is spite, cruelty and malice?
I possess non of it, the poor soul that writes what he feels but never what he wants others to read. This old curse that i seem blessed with.
Envy, red bloody envy, pure undiluted envy, piteous envy, wretched envy!
Is he the cause of my insanity? Not more than a catalyst, i blame myself for being his pawn. I'm in the shape of a child, but I'm not the child, I'm not the bastard that he would willingly endorse!
I understand him all too well, although the two flowers did not bloom from the same branch, but after all nature is our mother, the blue blue sky inspires all those who stand beneath it, and god watches over us both.
Meaningless arguments that revolve around revolving, taping on the advantage of having somewhere to go.
You meet the dead wall of a tired mind, blood refusing to stimulate the cells.
Wasted time that is readily available, just at the tip of your fingers.
So dangerous to have things so easily within reach, yet so tempting.... a trap.
Indecision about the nature of oneself, indecision about how to go on.
The marking of a weak personality?, the marking of a wuss?
So very maddening not to have a style, the endless tumbling between the conformity of others. A dark, pulp mass. In search of oneself.
Breaking dominions through bloodshot eyes, a daring adventure, an unhealthy one... a failure.
Surrendering to the unholy demands that float aimlessly in the mind..... they make claims over all of this.
They peremptorily request, if we - the words - are so corrupt, then who could possibly read us?