Non-fiction

I present my life,

as I felt it as a matter of fact
The presentation,
oh, now it all seems like a big blur

No 'how to' manuals,
no 'to be' guides,
Think, quest, and I became
What did I become?
A monsterly saint of my own decide
and a hero of my insipid domain
No boundaries or emotions,
to condemn or restrain
like a movie with classifications,
but not hinderances to
alter its constrains

Between speaking and listening
bordering often on insanity
knowing well that only
written works tend to remain
heretic or sacrosanct,
debatable but a proof of
an insanity,
that was schematic but unremitting
This unscripted beginning is only
prolonging in my remaining inane

Let's not search for proof
of our existence now,
what is there to blame!