I have these ideals, fuzzy wuzzy
vague hazy dreams
like cotton candy
like soft wisps of dandelion seeds
whispers on the wind
stirrings in the loins
that can never be satisfied.

Ideals invoke a false sense of permanency.

What I fail to see
becomes the imposter.
What is real is transitory
it changes, rearranges
only to be tasted in the moment.

When I can't live up to my ideals
I retreat back into an unpleasant fantasy
better than the hell I've imagined.

It's hell to set up ideals for yourself
you can never live up to.
Where do you find peace
where can you go for a little relief
when you're the monster with the whip?