I am vulnerable when I'm left

with words hanging

from my lower lip,

conjuring the awkward sensation

of having an extra limb

thwarted from my body.

 

Whenever my body thwarts

that extra limb like

my cellular device,

it never ceases to agitate 

daily turmoils of 

having distraught insecurities.

 

Considering these insecurities become

displayed behind a glasscase

surrounded by estranged audiences, 

we can scrutinize

idiocracy's most robust warriors:

the moronic masses.

 

I am vulnerable when the moronic masses

replace my critical lenses 

of perceiving the world as good,

but instead emulates

the abandoned child of the next generation.

 

Especially since the next generation

thinks they are better than the the last

and neglects to thank their past,

everyone deserves

their passages paid, but even better,

a response in return.

 

Since the vile response

disguises the truth I can't handle:

every syllable stabs internal expectations,

every phonetic maims tender strenght,

and every breath wounds 

the hoarding agonies boiling beneath...

 

I AM INVULNERABLE WHEN I'M NOT...

so meek, so weak, so threadbare...

there is no escape from here.