I am the experiment.
This is my place.
This is my role.
The drug paints hallucinations of meanings around each single of these empty words,
that are naked on a notepad but belong onto a colorful clustersheet,

pityfully fallacy!

Can we, the two of us,
find the meaning of rhymes in here together?
We can engine the searches, only if we want to;
and talking about principles:
Well,
most of it, it's ego ****, and I dare to write and spit on anything forbidding me my will I'm freely willingly willed to write
a *title now, within the flow, than out of it at given times, when it rims
and rhymes and Romes and rums.

*******,
let me write when I want to, not if you could to, how dare you, I'm sensible and easy to brittle, don't pressure me with principles, you son of a dissociative spine itch!


- We were derailing. And still are. Rhymes so easy, reasons so far. Words I delete will never teach me memoriance.
Two tasks,
can't comprehend this nonsense, I slide on the blade of sentences that split my own illusive walls of honour I enhanced -
throughout the conversation with each myotherselves, perhaps
in advance, far before you knew,
this
that's
choppy-chopped chown-chauwn-to-grid-cheese-strings
¿point of view?,
while I faithe for making sense with my course of understandnessless mess of a what's a

what-a hard digest.

Oh you’re back.
How was the trip?
Wait you need to do what?
You can’t right now though..
Really?.. that bad.
Well then.. okay. Guess it’s your turn.

Hi nice to meet you, we’ll get to names later.
She almost did it.
God you should’ve seen it.
But that’s done and over with.
No more you after all.
I’ve held her ground. I picked up the pieces. I saw her sink.
But I’ve seen her pick herself up. I watched her clean her mess. I saw her rise.
She thinks she needs someone and she truly doesn’t.
That’s why she has me.
Oh and I’m not good with names.. see ya.

Not sure how I'm feeling
Coping and dealing
Roping and reeling
In need of serious healing

Could you be my pen?
Bleed out words to help me mend?

Or possibly grow as a tree
Produce oxygen to set me free?

Then perhaps become my savior,
Tear down your walls to create paper?

Allow my thoughts to soak
But only if you never smoke.

For my words turn into fuel,
Actually, all of this is much too cruel.

When will pulse increase
out of excitement
rather than fear?

regretful hearts
signal a cry.

Tears slip down
onto our heals,
feet no longer
cling to soil.

left the brain
to rot and boil.

have no grit
have no might

do as you're told
don't question molds.

oh how these days of symmetry
lack any sort of tranquility.

for now, our bodies mimic
palpitations of so-called workaholics.

actions contradicting
wishful tendencies

each obedient second
portraying societies' needle.

lackluster blood entering veins
infecting what once kept organs aflow.

in reach of hearts
it may not pump

but within our souls,
we grasp control.