Hovering somewhere above nowhere
I’ve begun to grow,
To see,
To create—or maybe not?
And I’m only in the likeness, the likeness of a creator.
But I did what I did and on my own.
I’ve created too—it was my strength,
My effort,
My abilities—or was it?
And I can’t tell:
Should I be Victor or not? Should I hate me, who I am?
What I’ve created—what’s created me?
Not average, no, not at all.
Larger than life—and yet? Still in it. A part of it.
I’m incorrectly labeled,
Who?
Which?
What—am I?
And most of all why?
Why am I the monster—or am I?
But don’t ask me.
I don’t know.
And even what I do I’ll never tell.
There’s no jade skin, there’s no bolt through my skull,
But there’s a horror story.
My brain (is it mine?) tears at itself
Searching/not searching finding/not finding
Still wondering/convinced (and unconvinced)
Idontknowmaybepossiblyperhapscouldbe
STOP! JUST STOP!
But I doubt it just the same.
Wishing I could shake it
Hidden away in a babushka doll
Layers Layers Layers
Layers Layers Layers Layers
Layers Layers Layers Layers
Building a barricade you can’t break down.
Open it up, you can’t—can you?
I’ve got padlocks on each with no combos.
Crack me open, there’s only more shell underneath.
You can’t.
I don’t.
I might—do I want to?
Does the creator hate what he’s created?
Is it fear? Fear of truth? Fearing that I really am hated?
Or fear, fear that I’m wrong.
All wrong.
Is it fear that that I’m not hated?
Not all on me?
Not a monster?
Not alone?
Not at all.
Fear of what I really am?
Fear that maybe—I’m loved?