if bog be for us, who can be against us?

you debate into a void that does not care to argue
dismissing yourself and daring the world to respond
meanwhile the actors are turning the page
in a most efficient je-ne-sais pas

i guess i like being in danger
i guess i like being protected
protected by the problems
my imagination ends at help

why are you scared of becoming anything other than the person you are?

left to my own devices, i would reorganize
given infinite time, i would become so much greater
but slow, human pace is the line drawn
and so i feel out of control

each iterative change is guided by...whom?
each breaking day brings to bear...what?
i lack the fortitude, i have often been told
how can i envision life crawling upward from here?

i have always been regarded as highly intelligent
wondrously capable. terrifyingly precise.
i have been, from birth, a delicate instrument
and now i boggle, to be manipulated at scale

great ideas. awesome statutes and carapaces of the mind.
my fault, some say, is the ability to perceive each dripping nuance
a sculpture of impermanent ice that i would burn away, willingly
so as to save myself from perceiving imperfection for an instant

is this why they laugh? is this why they banter about my inadequacy?
i am nowhere near so gauche and conceited as to imagine that i need tearing down
surely they are not bringing me up to their own impossible level

my laughter is none so precious as the giggles of a child
who could pay heed to my tremors and ponder the impetus
i am only so intriguing to those who have never seen the like
and so i make myself bald-headed. i make myself a spectacle

to fashion myself smaller, uglier
at least to be feared, as an insect
at most to be trapped, pinned
to cage myself into singular value

can a child see shades of my multilayered age?

the elements for which i quest do not gleam, but are diophanous
the things i want are not grandly achievable goals

religious attention to the items that consume me
yields no dividends nor tithing at my abdulations' close
i toil in this finer world to no perceptible gain

my fight is to foil the disturbances
to abide at the status quo
and even i know it to be pathetic

my eyes must be too sharp to be gauzed over with niceties
of course i have tunnel vision; i've lived there my whole life

but if i am alive, to this moment
we can and must posit that i have already been given away

it cannot be the possibility that reigns me
more the action of my existence; i alone, fleet, today