These self reflections draw me open.
I am disembowled by a self absorbed
Pen.

And my guts laid bare.
My life
Laid out as the taxonomy of my life
My intuition and my memory.
Revolt against me
And disappear.

All falls apart and I'm left barren.
A fallow field of feeble dreams.
Gazing at nothing.
Disassociated on an abstract thought.
Coiled frustration.
A pent up Oroborous.

Despair.
Inadequate.

I'm a waste of food.
Useless eater stuck in liminal time.
A phantasmal half life.

These poorly worded self fulfilling prophecies.
The apophenia of glossolia.
Beat down on my obsessive mind.

She sings syllogisms.
That no one knows.
But her, the wind, and my imagination
In an internal idyllic idealism.
A succinct thought
Where she's beautiful.
Happy.

Frozen in a good memory.

A lovely smile.

And.
Here I am.
Reading metaphors and analogies
Written on her soul.
Projected through reality
From her sweet lips.

The words don't form in my head like they used to.

There's nothing lucid anymore.
Nothing eloquent.

Just half aborted thoughts.
Too ugly to be born.
A constant stream of non sequiturs.

Frustration.
Intermingled with the constant state of depression.
A sad sorry excuse for a human being.
Little old misanthropic me.


Resigned to obfuscated imagery.
To broken thoughts.
To feeble ideas.
To the self loathing negative confirmation bias.
To the absolute state of my mind.

Someone said in a curt cliche.
That
It's a
Cold hard
World out there.
Friend.

You gotta keep your wits about you.
Take the medication,
Drown out the voices with sedatives and
Keep a formal fragile facade of average.
Conform into the agglomeration of normalised behaviour.

Repeat the Nicean creed
Of nit picking normality.

Unfortunately.
I think I only think in cliches.
The soul of the author is laid bare.
And becomes
Destroyed.

Oh friends.
I know.
Self similar sentiment
Is wasted on literary minds.
As my verbosity is limited by my lexicon
That's drying up as we speak.
The creek bed of my creativity
Evaporating.

And,
What am I but average
In ability.

Irregular in mental acuity.
My divine spark
Is this mashing together
Of words someone else
Stoked in a literary bonfire.

For I'm as cold as frozen nitrogen.
Disjointed from the ambient temperature of familiar
In my own personal agoge.
Raised on rusty nails
Tempering my will as
Hard as an isolated diamond.
Ranting to the coal.

And, I found myself
Looking for my rough.

It's where I discovered
Some familiar adage
To regurgitate in an off tempo
Poorly worded poem.

And it's always a sob story they're singing
On the radio.
About the trials of other people.
And their mundane conformity to their ideals of
Triumph and tribulation, scraped off their existential sinew.
Burning.
Curling up their metaphoric arm.

Familiarity in self diagnoed PTSD.

There's
Always a love song they're writing.
With fountain pens.
In caligraphy.
Vague and ambiguous.
A passion everyone feels the same.

But isn't it the desire for a break
From the mundane.
To be consumed in an eschatology.

An apocalyptic devouring
Of logical reasoning.

When they find me out.
As they always do.
As an asymptomatic.
Anomaly.

They'll say,
There's no better torch song than an epitath.
A ****** ballad.
With a sorrowful refrain.
For me, strange and unusual:

Farewell.

Here too often.

Never.

Gone.
Too.
Soon

I endure for I am hard.
My will to power overcomes the death of God
Every let down sloughs off my persona.
Said the diamond to the coal.
In a simulacra.
Hyper real.
A simulated holographic principle.
More human, than human.

And here I am
Prescient in the noumea.
Of every perfect form.
I think, therefore I am
The ubermensch in recursion.
Self reflective particulars.
Like how I'm often an emanation of God
Without end.

Consistently
always
At
Rock bottom
And, I'm assured this is it.
The lowest I can get.

But friend,
I'm just a singularity.
So dense I fall through space time.
How far can we recede into first causes
If we don't infinitely regress.

You can trust that there will be a triumph of the will
Over the wretched of the Earth.
Unless all there is is the ego and its own.
Could potentially be a categorical imperative
To tell the truth.

But, then again
It's patently absurd.
Yet you insist on lining my epistemology
With your rancid ontology.
I'll have my own twilight of the idols
As I decline like the western empire.

Demonic despair.
Stoic loss.
Cynical.

No, I am that I am.
Tetragrammaton.

So many reassembled lifetimes.
I'm the Buddha of malcontents.
My realm is Dukkha.
My mantra, free me from Naraka.
And my upaya dissolved the mara
Preventing my realisation of Buddha nature.
But that doesn't mean anything.

Other than.

Irrational fear.

Isolation.

All the drawn out strained things.
I'm an avatara of falling apart.
A forgotten angel that never got to fly.
The gestalt of sloth.
Finding my meaning in many worlds.
And, as prime Nolan goes into seclusion.
The quantum immortality implied by my quantum suicide.
Drips off me like water off leviathan.
I don't holistically absorb reality.
I ignore it with logical positivism.
Collect some real world data.
A kinda empiricism.

But that's just the real.
Not me.
Everything begins and ends with me.

The historical imperative
That.
I'm the poltergeist
zeitgeist.
Of poverty stricken.
Paranoid prophet philosophers.
Making sense of the none sense.
In anyway I can.