I don't know what to do with myself.
There was self-induced loathing,
A contrived sense of loss,
A methodically planned congregation of dread and chills.
Lacking knowledge in intrinsic areas..
I wasn't sure where I was headed, but I went out the door. I learned today that frustration doesn't come in moderation. It isn't modest, and it does't wait. At least not within myself. I starved myself, I became emaciated due to the cornered thoughts that chased the serotonin out. There was no expulsion of any feeling that ever seemed to occur within my mind. It was all fused inside. Life in a glass cage. I held nothing but ambivalence for them, for it, for each and every absolutely unnecessary and uncalled-for emotion that had even yet to be categorized, dubbed anything. There weren't words for the intensity within, intensity that wouldn't excrete any bit of sympathy for the remainder of my body.
It screamed to me at night, it told me there was nothing better to do than to deal with it, but I couldn't just allow it to sit, stagnantly, recumbently with some sort of sardonic manner lying in it's look. I tried to sort out each image, each insignificant word that laid itself upon the tissues of my cortex. Whether it was relevant or irrelevant seemed to matter not, but I knew none of it would feel satisfying, not remotely. I thought, I tried to think, I did the best I could to remember a story. To think of someone else to be, to praise, to write an ode about or even a condemnation. But where am I now? Nowhere but atop this tombstone clicking my heels without any grace, without any stage presence. I sit here at ease, with pieces of emotions seemingly from every place and every which way there was anything, anything at all. Throwing itself at my back, aiming to tip me, to clear the conscience that should be placed within. I was in too much of a rush to live. So I was fixated with death. Give me a purpose! Give me an answer as to where to find where I'm supposed to be, supposed to go. So, I left tonight, I left with your bags and your wigs. I strung them together and pushed them into my suitcase, nothing else fit. I knew I needed to get on the plane sooner than later. Sooner, because I knew you wouldn't come looking, and the longer I knew that, the more certain it became, the more captivated I was with the idea of tearing your veins open.
Screaming these pitiless opinions at the top of my lungs, abrasively...
there were ideas, think of some, live, please, please live for me...
One day, some day..
A ticking of mankind, a trickling whisper, makes your spine shiver,
Tremulous at the thought.
There was self-induced loathing,
A contrived sense of loss,
A methodically planned congregation of dread and chills.
Lacking knowledge in intrinsic areas..
I wasn't sure where I was headed, but I went out the door. I learned today that frustration doesn't come in moderation. It isn't modest, and it does't wait. At least not within myself. I starved myself, I became emaciated due to the cornered thoughts that chased the serotonin out. There was no expulsion of any feeling that ever seemed to occur within my mind. It was all fused inside. Life in a glass cage. I held nothing but ambivalence for them, for it, for each and every absolutely unnecessary and uncalled-for emotion that had even yet to be categorized, dubbed anything. There weren't words for the intensity within, intensity that wouldn't excrete any bit of sympathy for the remainder of my body.
It screamed to me at night, it told me there was nothing better to do than to deal with it, but I couldn't just allow it to sit, stagnantly, recumbently with some sort of sardonic manner lying in it's look. I tried to sort out each image, each insignificant word that laid itself upon the tissues of my cortex. Whether it was relevant or irrelevant seemed to matter not, but I knew none of it would feel satisfying, not remotely. I thought, I tried to think, I did the best I could to remember a story. To think of someone else to be, to praise, to write an ode about or even a condemnation. But where am I now? Nowhere but atop this tombstone clicking my heels without any grace, without any stage presence. I sit here at ease, with pieces of emotions seemingly from every place and every which way there was anything, anything at all. Throwing itself at my back, aiming to tip me, to clear the conscience that should be placed within. I was in too much of a rush to live. So I was fixated with death. Give me a purpose! Give me an answer as to where to find where I'm supposed to be, supposed to go. So, I left tonight, I left with your bags and your wigs. I strung them together and pushed them into my suitcase, nothing else fit. I knew I needed to get on the plane sooner than later. Sooner, because I knew you wouldn't come looking, and the longer I knew that, the more certain it became, the more captivated I was with the idea of tearing your veins open.
Screaming these pitiless opinions at the top of my lungs, abrasively...
there were ideas, think of some, live, please, please live for me...
One day, some day..
A ticking of mankind, a trickling whisper, makes your spine shiver,
Tremulous at the thought.
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