I don’t know what to call this piece..

Holding on to many selves, with distinct characters of each alter ego, I loathing the sense of each talking among each other.
My mind is split into multiple Schizophrenic tendencies and insomnia breathing many sleepless nights, an uncomfortable manner of rest coils my spin into a lotus position of prayer as I yearn to evict the demons holding me to the world where tongues are spoken into dying languages.
I see God in each blink of a decaying self, his hand reaches out into the blindness to pull only one of me but the persistence of other manifestations proves to be pestering and painting shades of darkness where my shadow sits awaiting me to walk in the light so it too may rid itself of its own shadows.
Love draws its own conditions to manifest itself, unconditional is her music but ever change is her melody as one self yearns to dance to her lusty explicit song, my other self admires from a far and draws conclusions and possibilities to each manner of approach, words would roll from my tongue as a poet would speak but on approach my tongue would freeze and break into a cold stutter and faulty steps, sweaty palms let slip my hold of first impressions.
As too many selves cluster my thoughts and I cannot pin point where she fits in on my paradise island where I alone displace the empty spaces where the torn fabrics of time were sworn by leprechauns into rainbow strips, now seven different shades of gray and no pot of gold waits on the other side, just broken pieces of my glass heart shouting shattering screams.
Like solitude I’m confined to a lonesome existence that of an island and silence holds on to my diction and definition, I want to speak of her and taste the beauty in her name yet my tongue is pulled in two different directions to take shape of a serpent tongue and I utter deceit in space of her name.
I look in the mirror and see a million selves and realise though different each of them pixel the one reflection I see when I part with lady insanity, at that point I’m at my most venerable like that of a child parted from a mother’s comfort.
So I write, I place poetry to each of me defining their depth of speech, translated into egyptian dead languages that the gods themselves dear not speak yet many of me utter each sentence of this forbidden into poetry.
I would soon strip the skin off my flash to find the one true self, maybe in my naked form I will find God again and rid myself of these demons that never stop talking in my head, one dressed in red and the other white, both spirits are shadow less and cold to the touch I shiver in their presence.
I remember when I too was a god, commanding thunder through my finger tips and had a grip over storm weather by my mere speech, now I’m just a mere mortal finding ground on empty spaces where kings and queens go to die into modern slaves to an unforgiving mother earth.
Only one of me will break bondage to stand with a fist up claiming poetry as a mother tongue and birthing a mute child into a bilingual freedom fighter…