The Map

I am the offspring of a rhyming couplet and a death threat.
The perfume that surrounds me as an aura smells only slightly of flowers,
the high notes are of a bears musk: sweat, earth, blood and intensity.
Crouched in a corner in some nameless, faceless room I await temptation.
I don't answer the phone when it rings. I don't answer the door when it knocks.
And I most certainly don't turn on the Aramanic entertainer that sits across from me in the nameless room, beckoning.
I am a juggler of knives, apples, and bean bags.
Depending on the order of which I fumble, I will either: bleed, feed, or carry on.
The thirst I suffer from most often isn't that of liquid, but love. Not the acquisition, the definition.
A visionary prompts me to be hopeful from the darkest place of my brain. She lives there because if her light weren't there to illuminate that otherwise darkened portion of my brain, all would be lost.
They made a list on the very top story of the skyscraper that is humanity. The authors of this list aired toward brevity. The list read: obey, consume, die.
I made a list the other night in my room before I went to sleep. My room is located underneath the boiler room of the human skyscraper. I too aired toward the side of brevity. My list read: reinvent, give, evolve.
I said before that I was the offspring of a rhyming couple and a death threat.
That may have been misleading. Allow me to interpret.
The world is a lost as a whole it is dying, and humans wrote the map.
Before we forget the concept of trying, let us all fill in this gap.
Rewrite this crap.