running with knives on a slippery surface

insanity doesn't run in my family,

he walks slowly, and carries a big stick.

he takes me to the park of familiar noises and

spins me too fast on the merry-go-round.

he takes me walking though mine fields in clown shoes

with my little red wagon, collecting victims and empties

and things that go thump in the night.

he takes me stalking the corners of a lifestyle that

no amount of pretending or latex will ever let me join in.

he takes me running with knives on a slippery surface.

he takes me.

he leaves me wrapped up in costumes, too afraid

to get naked.
he leaves me blessed with a vicious beauty, making
me feel more manatee than mermaid.
he leaves me confusing my muse with an addictive personality,
spiting distance from reality but it's all done
with smoke and mirrors.
he leaves me seeing my fears in double vision.
he leaves me.

he drags me along in the hand of illusion, cold hands

for good or evil.
he drags me (kicking and screaming) down the aisle
to my permanent pew in the chapel of unrequited love.
he drags me to the roof and makes me dizzy.
he drags me under the riptide, where it's darker than
a month of new moon midnights, not waving, not drowning,
not even really treading water.
he drags me under.

insanity doesn't run.