I wrote this around Halloween, but of what year I am unsure. I often write poems in various notebooks, sandwiched between a chunk of blank pages, only to completely forget about having written them. Then, sometimes years later, I stumble across the content and have no clue what I was writing about. I thought I was pretty diligent about dating my materials, but I guess I thought wrong. As usual, it's vague and cryptic...
Perhaps it was something about the night of facades
that had everyone masquerading as someone they are not.
Perhaps it was my state of mind,
cluttered with intoxication,
that brought out my anger in it's purest form.
In vino veritas... perhaps I was following my gut,
no matter how juvenile the manifestation.
And now, thinking back on all the accusations,
it occurs to me that they are really just obvious projections of my own internal fears and self-realizations.
Unsure of where to go from here,
I could sink to the bottom of the ocean, cement tugging at my ankles, while this whole storm blows over.
And I'd be perfectly fine with that.
In fact, I wouldn't mind staying there for awhile.