Leader of What

Sensory overload so you can feel alive.

But it’s no use,

'cause you’ll come back to that.

That poor you.

Once the lights dim,
and the sound dies,
and the drugs drop,
then it’s just you—

and that cursed mind,
that despicable you.

The same you whose reflection you love,
the same one you let your phone catch
and shove into the mouths of your
tens of hundreds of thousands
of friends and fans and follows.

You.

You, leader of what?
Of thinking thoughts?
Of taking shots?
Of splendid senses?

Splintering dots.
Spindly legs.

I was already told I was too intense.
I’m sorry.
It’s an unfortunate thing—I wish I was not.

But every time I live in the night,
I’m too far gone.