Playing With Fire

my mind has been running 

towards similies that mean nothing...

so if i reach for a flower 

let i tell you, it is only our disaster

disaster written upon the face of murder 

will give us hope for a new commander

but if he is to lead us to victory

let i tell you, it is only toward misery

misery that pegs us guilty

for a new ideal to extinguish our frivolity 

but if it will lead us to significance

let i tell you, it will only fuel the resistance

resistance spawned from a dark restlessness

that masturbates vigourously to selflessness

but if our orgasm bursts utopian unity

let i tell you, it is only toward hypocrisy

hypocrisy pumped from the two opposing valves

which sound the beating of our heart

and plugging away the black,

it remits backwards to our sight

newborn heart born so pure

the world can't allow you to stay so sure

so you run and run toward perfection 

in a form of idealistic identification

then smug with a newfound position, 
you ramble off your blackened wisdom

when the nurse calls,

tell her it's a case of dissatisfaction

It's the most honest I've been,

and it's a life I've observed too long...

our minds either play with fire

or they dull and wither