That small boy, prone to fits,
prone to sporadic bouts of
crying in the closet,
slighted with every boisterous noise
curled and shaking,
litlle chest heaves and
he's lost
again

Memories come,
just flashes across his
too thin
eyelids
he was a demon once,
just like daddy and daddy's dad
before him
and soon he'll be
reborn
in that flesh,
the skin that
suits best

Will replace the weakness,
that tell tale
falter in
every step
a man child with a
mask on,
trick or treat boys
lets go out and wreak our havoc,
the masculine conquest

but deep down deep,
where synapses fire and fears
replicate
the sinking feeling has
anchored,
I'll never be more than
this
second, certainly not
the self actualized
portrait
painted

With naive and shaky hands,
the lines were always
jagged
the likeness severly
skewed,
one eye gracing corner lip
a cubists
mirror
gone to shatters,
reflecting only
partial fragments

too multi-faceted to ever
be assembeled
with or
without directions