volatile observation suspended amidst reality and fiction,
subdued voice echoes down a hallway of convictions;
like a despotic fog blurring options for a swarm of insects
who eventually finds way to a lizard's grotesque carcass.

a feeling, in my gravel ribs, this might be a dead end
staring up at the sky, an atheist's hollow vision;
air and venom flowing through wires of flesh,
tired abusive drunkards- returning home a mess.

my dear texts~"what if, it's nothingness which spirals into life?"
I am left in my bathtub with a glass of honey or wine,
and the last ray of optimism, living vicariously through my mind.

If I were that scar above your rose tinted lips,
of whom you keep picking and removing dead cellular dust,
I probably would have bled more than you think.
I can not shed tears, possibly.
The hate you show me rises
from your porous subcutaneous layer of insecurity.
I heard every little wound needs love to heal,
And so will I-
your dearest hideous scar.

A gift of perpetual silence,
from a deafening scornful frequency;
Eternal tranquility, we chase,
so is it considered victory?
Victorious it must feel,
for the one who departs abrupt;
In the halt prior to mine,
leaving a chaos in my heart.

I am nothing more or less
than a pathetic line of symmetry.
In this paradox of existence,
a listless, feeble entity.
I am nothing more, and nobody
for the universe to see.
A dissonant heap of dust,
and never a beloved priority.