I throw away
a tube of toothpaste
to discover
it was the last one.
In bitter defeat
I fish the toothpaste out of the trash
and attempt to squeeze out,
once more,
a morsel
of toothpaste.

Self-studying is the dichotomy of enthusiastically knowing more and insignificantly knowing nothing, along with the roots and branches of motivation

A Chair far beyond reach to those that want it, and those that seek it out, Its desire seeks those weak enough to swallow whole.
Its miles below the surface dwelling in a cold depth far from all known life, behind an old wood door, miles further more, from warmth of sunlight.
It's a place so far from help, hope is hopeless, the Only way out is from within it, and your self.

Beyond the Wooden door, you become trapped,  the Chair draws you deeper, as the door is consumed into darkness, and all walls consumed by oblivion, your direction has been taken, as you lay bare and lost.
Gain just your footing, and your stars, only for the last peak of hope to fade away aswell as the above becomes below and below above as you walk into the darkness,
Miles you cross, into the abyss you've been lost,
you in stupefaction, hope now gone, the Chair draws you nearer.

This place will know you inside, know your heart and mind, it will break you, defeat you and after its won it seeks to decimate, changing your very way of being.
It will let you see the world through eyes not your own,
in a body you feel you simply occupy.
As you step through your own life it sheds you into darkness,  it forces you away from others and shelters you for its self to feed moreover on.
It creates a new you, alone, trapped in darkness and anguish.

Once it has taken your mind and your body, this is when  you have found the Chair, or it finds you, it waits, after all your pain and suffering after your fall from oblivion into the abyss of woes, you may sit, you may now find a place of gravity of center, this chair, or the darkness ahead.

If your wise you leave this chair, for it is the throne of death, it is your resting place, to sit is suicide,
The chair will force to vanquish your own life,
It chooses every method known to man,
It let's you decide, and as your final seconds pass with your last breath, you see the light that waited beyond the darkness tat was ahead, as you perish.

But to those that walk forward and pass the Chair,
Your granted life, and your granted happiness,
It will teach you more struggles then others will face but it will end, and walking onward will grant you life, happiness and wellbeing.

For that door is the pathway through the gates of depression, the Chair is the seat if death when you surrender to lifestyle struggles and the light is the hope you will never lose, walk forward an onward survivor of life and death.

Your words were the wind--
Crushing,
Defeating,
And then nothing all at once.

Sweet... so sweet at first; as if intending to overbear, and then in a moment's breath, the intensity having mellowed fades.

Next one's tongue does greet, a nuttiness that begs it to retreat; reviving dead memories of when you two first did meet.

Having now fallen from heights, be they ***** or steep; the taste of your tongue becomes bittersweet. Ending this final kiss, silently pledging to lose neither hope nor sleep; heartbreak leaves the taste of caramel upon your teeth.

Oh honey,
We are fireflies.
Dancing in the heat of a wild campfire flame.
Nothing can defeat us.

Fatigued of hand prints woven in the breeze
Corporeal winds tactfully stealing away decay are best left to their myopic ruination
There's no taste in the world beyond dull green hedges

Grown weary of waking, sequestered themselves in dreamy twilight, eating from otherworldly trees, evidenced by the mirth newly formed in their once glazed eyes
Mirth, though a flimsy facade, masking an ineffable cruelty malignantly circling their hearts, invoking fleeting fancy that they know all too well will lead down, down into dark, is mirth nonetheless
Perhaps the sobering drunkenness through which dust soliloquy echoes, sonnets rising like smoke through crown candy, unfurls heightened sensations
Through tactile impressions; how they approach their apex of disenchantment
Unfurling their broken spirits
Where the fay pixies dance under burning sky, their flaking flesh rises like smoke, rejoining a procession of white evening fire
Quivering with their feeding, needles against withered bark against the fire behind, marring the space between hazy, ill defined borders
The satyrs acting droll prophets of ashen groves, places where the soul becomes re-imagined
Under pinprick enteral, a serpent on every branch, danger and recompense united in a cohesive, all pervasive, cyclical motion
And it comes at all hours, and all is golden, all is fire, and all rests on the vestiges of the restless, countless, formless faces freed of their dull, gray stone
Stone of the satyr's legs
Spat between their golden teeth, laughter bubbling below the skin
Burgeoning machinery under earth green cloak, lightning bereft of destruction tunneling through the shadow
As they take their places, with sordid mirth still warm within
Drought of the ageless, apparent calamity reflecting in the pools of reason
And still the dead air laughs

Let them dance the dance of death
In it's pure expression, the tension it creates is seldom contemplated in isolation

I still love you
But no candles burn for you here
Thoughts of you grow thin, as I compose the faces
They're all waxing and waning, in tandem with the tides
Silver flecked through tiny wings
Catching effervescent light
No quality of life
If life is to be sought, it'll only be rent
As it once was, so it will be
Again, and again, and again and again