Paint splatterd t-shirts,
accomponied by a librarian nose,
stand erect as a lighthouse.
Vindictive waves may crash,
And temptuous winds may roar.
But I glide over these turbulant seas
towards the beam that beckons
with promises of self identity.
But upon arriving,
Something was amiss,
It seems that my personality was a fraudulent wisp
Of smoke that dissapears upon inspection.
A Charletons game that promised perfection.
Time flounced by as I looked for myself,
Through stages, and stages of novels on shelves.
Each a clue closer to who was me .
And each step a farther from life, friends, and eventually reality.
Accumulated research has lead me to think,
That perfection is only achievable
Through lack of inspection