Blame has been written, With the blood from your own fingers, All over this facade of mine, That you have built From your own cement inside, I understand that it seems unbreakable, Completely rid of cracks I will not say it is wrong, But I will ask you, Where does the part where, I’m not the predator, go? Where does my story go? You see, it’s hard to explain, My mind works with energy, That is more complex than, The complexity it has admitted to having, Let us play a game of cards, As I deal the cards, I ponder back and forth, Is one less on one stack, Is one more on the other, During the game, I can tell the difference between, Clubs and spades, But, is that really a king? Or is there something else hidden? Is the number 6 not a 9? Or are they both a hidden symbol? Blame has been written With the blood from your own fingers, All over this facade of mine, That you have built, From your own cement inside, I understand that it seems unbreakable, Completely rid of cracks, But, if you come and tell me that you know, What my mind has encountered, Without having the decency to ask, If you can think you can twist and turn My, I repeat, my thoughts, Then consider your creation, Consider this facade of mine, Already broken Published in Daily Times, October 13th 2018.