Postal 


Postal
By: Patrick Michael

Demons to my left, aliens on my right,
ghosts all around and only my gracious humble mind

connected to all these different levels of reality.

Some like a dream, others my worst nightmare,
lucid I become, to affect and attempt to direct the narrative of my astral projection.

 This figure of me casts a shadow at least 9 stories high,
and something about my heart glows brighter than any light.

This is not psychosis, not a sickness at all you see,
this is psychotechnics, a field I wish to define.
I’m unfortunately modified, tortured and denied,
all of these beautiful gifts that could be trained, honed and refined.

 This approach needs to be resituated,
so that I may offer a balanced solution to my eyes,
perception the great illusion, the problem of reality.

This equation is wisdom based, and my logic may be skewed,
but I feel that intuition is far better than instinct.

I’m not just surviving, I’m loving for the better,
and with this one love, I solve all my answers.
As bitter as I feel, sometimes I’m better off forgiving all of my mistakes
so this sweet reception of my interface could sustain a spice of life I’ve been craving.

 A variety show for a circus,
multi-faceted diamond, or just a view through the window of truth,
cold fusion reactions, made in some biological factory.

Nucleotides in my body react for new forms of clean energy,
and manners with which to form a delicate loving distraction.

 Behind all this space, a curtain call is pulled,
and the machine felled by man, was written by the trees.

Microwaves zap all that energy away, but we need to save that last one
cause gamma is how some can see.

I think we can find the reason why I’m still here,
and it might have something to do with my love for you.

TaurianTorus©

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