Most of my iv + Lix spittle existence found me figuratively (primarily academically, emotionally, psychologically, sexually, socially...) adrift, and malfunctioning blinker analogous to a boat without courtesy picture an appalling Cap'n Ahab ankh caws away!
aimlessly bobbing - treading water analogous to drowning sailor akin to a besotted drinker just out of rest to be rescued by Mister Rinker
sea ming lee without any hook, line and sinker despite being gifted with an above average thinker from without, where two myopic ocular orbs did winker.
All thru academia just barely passing grades metaphorically suffered from anemia, and at my nadir, thy prepubescent psyche plummeted lovely bones into grave state,
sans anorexia minus bulimia mental health also linkedin shot thru through with healthy dose of dysthymia cap (tinned em man hint mettle) kept awake with insomnia peppering cerebral cortex with monomania buzzfeeding earthlinked somnambulant
zombified condition with a burning desire toward pyromania (nearly burned down the house at 324 Level Road) nsync with unmanageable raging (red dee and bull lush) testosterone spawning satyromania
the above particularly accentuated, and cresting with accursed triskaidekaphobia most agonizing, when orbitz around Earth accompanied by 756 full moons) demarcated ten plus three on a Friday the thirteenth, according to Gregorian Calendar,
hence death be not proud (originally titled a fourteen-line poem, or sonnet, by English poet John Donne, one leading figure in the metaphysical poets group of seventeenth-century English literature)
sought after utopia pleading, longing, and hooping if I Willoughby able to sprinkle cremated ashes across Xenia.