I have succumbed, finally, to the simple frame holding lens that enslave my eyes; if I can't see clearly with my naked pupils then theres nothing worth looking at-- lens bend light, distort the picture. Yes, I know, I know, supposedly glasses offer clarity, yet nothing is ever clear without them. My trivial battles rise and fall like the nodding of my friends fogged up on dreams of Hades or twitching in hyperactive idleness leaving them where they started off: pommelled by gravity. I've developed a habit of late, a crippling one-- editing my thoughts during their manifestation, like slicing a newborns scrawny neck before it can cry out and be heard. So much for inspiration if one can not begin thinking before censoring. At some point, the delusion was born, and I had thought that what pours out raw from chaos must be filtered and given order-- So I revised, imposed order, and created nothing; left holding a sword mid-air in a quiet drowning, flailing in the sea of insanity. Perfection can not be pure without quirks of thought-- had I forgotten poetry reflects consciousness? I am a king with no clothes, feeling naked, but left in limbo, unable to remember having outlawed clothing so that nothing could be hidden. Someone should shove my golden crown up my ass, laugh at me, beat me silly, and dump me in a muddy field so I can remember that the cold does exist, that tyrant rule over ones mind does not allow imagination to create with abandon. Some things are best left unformed untouched, gushed out in an uncontrolled flood irrigating the fields that desperately need to be stirred. With an act of violence, one can accomplish a good deal. Where had I misplaced my balls and brash bravado? They are, of course, where my glasses are-- nothing is ever clear with or with out them. Perhaps this fog exists to keep me ready and alert for what slips pass and metal fists heading straight for my scarred face. My face-- it too is imperfect but stout and complete; the cuts and discolored spots mark each battle that made me. Perfection can never be true without flaws to sharpen the knife that bleeds those who wish to drive me under the arch of condescension. It feels good to feed on that which moves against me, the river, raw and churning, unhindered. Its flow carries the slivers of chaos that blossom into inspiration, and spark the engine of my imagination, unearthing stones that shave my knifes edge-- hungry to kill. Now I accept the clouded blur, and linger in this fog, casting nets in the river flood, feeding what starves, seizing what builds me, strengthening my temple pillars as they rise, honing my direction of thought and killing whatever rises against me letting them be swept away by the raging waters, or draining them with my blades thirst. This succumbing to chaos, that spills out from the edge of my mind-- from darkness, wild, savage and wary, is perfection molded out of my fury and the lessons burned into my image by wars that left the river rich with blood-- and always thirsty.