after so much self imposed perfection i was sliding into the mud of my own demise. i was creating a world based on the things i knew were true, on the reality sold to me. i felt as if i was a serpent. sliding through mud, caged, muted, going over my own thoughts, going over and over my wrong doings, going over the colors of the people i have hurt , mixing in pigments of memories where people cry and the heroes recite you poems of self help. this is me, as a serpent, nor snail or eel.