The hate you keep inside won’t help you float.
But you cling to it, so below you.

Push it under you, to get above the waves.
But eventually the swell will drag you to hell.

Cling to it so below you.
It’s weight will stretch your arms.
Drag you down.

Down into the undertow. Against progress.
So vile, repugnant and insipid. You rot.
Your fingernails leave scars on hate.
You cling to it so.
But shout opposed to such accusation.

Now low enough the crash of the waves blind you.
Squinting through their spray, you struggle.
Treading in denial as you try to pull your hate to breast.

I’d reach out to you, if your hate wouldn’t drag us down together.
And we’d be clinging to something so below you.

What is loved,
now is cumbersome to engage.

Some sort of lethargy resists my path.
Reaching a state of catharsis is draining now.

Not emotionally but physically.

Stuck in this house, with no way out.
Quarantined from a virus.
But I’ve come down with one that leaches my creativity.

Writing this poem is hard. It feels plastic.
Even though I’m writing clear what’s so elastic.

It stretches around me so true,
But when I speak it, it lies and makes me blue.

I need freedom to return to my soul.
And an inoculate to cleanse it of this toll.

These two ailments leave me,
Chained and restrained.

We are not monsters.
We’re more terrifying.
We are human:

Peeping on toil crouched, through cracked doors.
We always sink to new floors.

I don’t smoke, and it would be suicide.
But breathing that in beats bearing us at all.
We sting and **** like pesticide.
I hope we’re heading for a great fall.

All of us gathered on this rotisserie.
Lathered in a grease of turpitude.
Always in such disarray.
Our evisceration wouldn’t be so rude.

The beginning of the rest of our life.
Hopefully chalked to the brim in strife,
And more near than soon.
Should bring us a fitting moon.

If that wasn’t clear enough for you,
you ******* tool who can’t read a hue.
I want us to die, I want us to end.
So we can be cleansed of our malady.
So we can begin to find a blend.

One without awe in violence, and parody.
Who’s bitter taste creates our insipid existence.
I think we can find a future merrily.
And isn’t enjoyed just for an instance.

Turtle in your shell,
reading a book or writing a tell.
Experience scared across your back.
But...
‘Tis it a waste to wash in what’s fell?!

Stagnancy is hell.
Exploration, brings novelty.
Are chains made of poetry?

Be elegies you write, or dancing in meadows.
Your pen takes time,
and mortality slowly ticks to reality.
Is this how you want to spend, the last breath from your bellows?

Is it really worth its hold?
The relationship with time is abusive and finite.
Or tis it better to go out and be bold?
Make sure you don’t waste your limelight.

However, reflection is illuminating.
And one might find a place on stage with a mirror.
A gaze into which could change your fear.
To each his own, possibilities are enumerating.

Disconnected, self destructive,
every moment alone and soon out of time.
Don’t desperately pull anything to breast.
But clocks run out, and panic will a set.

Hold your breath now, what’s the hurry,
these things cannot be forced.
Step on your toes, around this blushing rose.
Your stomping will bring the end of time.

Once distant, infancy blinded me.
I pushed you away, before so evilly.
Reality will wash away the falsify of order.
The fatuousness of lonesome is round the corner.

Ego and fear sublimated away!
I’ve seared you, now honest and vulnerable.
I hope this state can repair a path so dismal.
Constructed with puberal malice and discontent.
Apologies I can give, but actions scream.
Let me love incontinent.

Far too long, we’ve sat in complacence.
Now youth has boiled away we can see.
I’ve been dilating connection to a crony.
One I clench so profoundly.

Connected like roots to soil.
Far past our old toil.
Juxtaposed, we are paradoxical.
But we’re both connected to nobody.

You float so sweet like cereal.
But soon you’ll drown, that’s so surreal.

Live now in the light, while darkness lurks.
Destruction and loyalty is a virtue of the Turks.
Prosperity is always the one that irks.

When you sink, you’ll dry up and be bitter like salt.
Don’t be shy. Away you are from reality.
Of course you’ll say it’s not your fault.
You’re no longer in neutrality.

So close to the evil of indifference.
You’ve shook yourself loose.
In no mans land you stand, but with one in hand.
You’re now held tight in truce.

A peace in self, and with id unleashed.
A stand in true falsity, the chaos of mind.
Harmful your insides are released.
You’re so loose yet in a bind.

The incoherence of your unconscious.
Is so restraining.
But so loose you are to set it free.
You rise to a deep reality.
One that lays inside all.
And awakes outside, leading to a great fall.