Not quite crazy
I let myself be touched
by the freefalling void
the utter senselessness
of being alive
or dead
meaning
is just a convention,
syllables sounding
in a muscle
under a scalp
and somehow shared
occasionally
in almost-empty rooms.
Speaking of illusion
seems cruel
so we mask ourselves
in kind intention
and envy the freedom
of the naked.
Despite my yearning
for beauty in any form
what touches me
keeps peeling form away
roughly
gently
with each awkward
breath.