My own being (and nobody else) is my own
critic
I sit around with those that love me at a
beautiful picnic
I look around at a beautiful man and want to mimic
I walk every step insanely rhythmic
I know people all around are unjustly cynic
Seeing past the madness and illusion of the
ritual Olympic
It is somewhat of a distasteful sickening
acidic
Looking at the moon somewhat ecliptic
Feeling the pleasure in peoples eyes is
somewhat sadistic
I write with a flair and original style for
the artistic
I know in my heart I am better off and more
sophistic
Looking around it is hard to ignore most of
the horrific
But I see a lot in that around me that is
somewhat terrific
I live way on the cool breezy pacific
Wanting to be somewhat puristic, ignoring
the holistic, trying to be prolific
Yet desiring in others for them to be
specific
I walk with astride somewhat intrinsic
I ignore the more practical nature and look
into being more analytic
Seeing that 90% of others out there crave
that in the masochistic
I smile and flash my teeth in the fashion
of being somewhat voyeuristic
I want him to be a bit egotistic, idealistic, modernistic
Walking in and out of the system in
placement is somewhat surrealistic
Perhaps my dreaming self is somewhat over
optimistic