Would I truly have lived up to the potential that others see in me, or have I only flashed the parts that glint bits of greatness but hold nothing beyond amusement and lack of substance?

Am I really the sincere, honest, good man that I sometimes am told, or is it much more than a misintepretation of my nature, sensitivity, and response?

Is there a depth that truly lies deeper than what is perceived, or a veneer that's polished by years of wanting to be a bit more than I know that I am?

When does truth surface...in the punk rock tender or the redneck scholar...or is any bit of it some scripted reality put forth to throw interest off the smell of the down deep?

One hundred proof truths and oxygen honesty...the clash that is the sincere...

fumes that reach for something more than i am willing to converse...but choke on what i might actually mean...

a complexity so shallow...

the glare of the white lights from the red within...


the gutter scarred heart flayed on my sleeve, the first honesty i could let myself show...

for the contradicting angel on my lap...in hopes that this IS...

me...i...we...us...survivalism beyond the decay...

a wink at hope beyond the ruin that are the things I wonder about myself...