Hence I’m eclipsed in the magnificent indifferent specific specious indecent breeching meaningless exceeding bliss of bombast. My *** is grass, I’ve smoked my last **** and I’m broke so I’m hopeless but riding cloud nine in divine psychotic ****** illustrious lustful insightful divisive incisive mind fuckery. But I’m not talking about ***. That’s to be expected from the words I’ve been ejecting, but I’m speaking in terms of the indulgent churning I’m partaking in regularly. To no degree do I need to be cheering, or fearing the ever encroaching approach of a swift and painful death. I’ve been bereft since I was swept out of my hiatus in the ether, and I think I speak much deeper when I’m quiet, but why hide it when I’ve got so little to lose? I’ll just abuse my verbal onslaughts as a way of shaving off some time, cause I went blind a while ago, and seeing truth is burdensome to me, when I just bleed in silence in the mind, and I lack reason to pretend I’m ever fine, because the things I say don’t matter. How could they if I’m lacking any reason, holding onto nought but doubt in this incessant mental clatter. Truly in my mind the voices scream forever, no endeavor to be clever can save me from their decrees of ignorance. Perpetual ambivalence, my only friend, when I’m suspended in the dark.

I've sought endlessly for beauty in life

Seen it in questions and intricate weavings of their 

Puzzling, fragmented answers

Pieced together with words of silken gold

Or whatever the **** 


What the **** is silken gold to a word?

It sounds pretty


It could be argued to be

A delicate thing, so precious and thinning

Wrapped closely around itself

Building its tensile strength

Creating a thread which can hold the weight of woes


But did I ******* say that?

That's not what I was thinking at the time

It was just something to say

I don't really know how to express my emotions clearly

Everyone else seems to understand them, when I describe it

But to me it always comes off as nonsense


I'm jealous of the simple poets

Who write about what happened to them today

And actually get to cry about it


I don't

Maybe if I could, I'd understand what I'm feeling

But right now it just hurts to feel so alone

Having nobody who knows me

Just because I'm inept

I've always known there was a reason for everything. That's why I'm so obsessed with that infernal question of "Why?" Although, in recent times, it seems more about the "How?" than the "Why?", and every piece of the puzzle seems to be a twin. When the puzzle's almost complete, but the picture isn't the same as the one on the box, maybe "Why?" and "How?" should be substituted for "Where?" and "When?"

Storms of blackened sky and dampened earth. Thunderous silence. Aggressive solitude. Rot; erode, my afflicted qualia. Decompose, my ignorant regalia. Again, to grow, from blackened sky? Arise; from soot and silt, a sprout, amongst the flowing dirt.

Return to your mother, and be exhaled as color, anew, your own.
This heavy chested, poignant, indescribable emotion of chaos amongst emptiness; I suppose I will forever fail to describe it.
Who are you? Who am I? How can we be empty, or full, if we are not even shells?
Cyclical life, extant but fleeting, yet never without itself, throughout, without, inside, and beyond time.
We are the ocean as well as the drops, the sand, the shells, the air above, the sky beyond, the space and time and energy. Microcosms.
I don't understand.