Here I've grown to accept the riddles of each day, to culminate into a coalesced mesh of disarray.
Never would the seeds down under sprout to see the sun at the mere sound of thunder.
X marks the spot somewhere dissolving in my gut, wrenching at the chance to give both some and none of which we call *****.
I've lost my faith in humanity,
I've lost humanity in my faith.
Yet I'd face my fate if only just to sate the state.
This flip book of stop.
Animation.
Assimilates fremescent assibilation,
And similarly tastes terrible,
Savoring like dry sponge, and tied tongues,
It's incredibly trivial, just a trivia of syllables stripped up to simple tools.
Simple tools.
Simple...

a sweet
delicate taste,
veiling true intentions.
Delicious retribution, then
silence.

Even though my syllables ballerina
may falter, my metaphor's never
                                                  falter.

I balance my wording between
the lines of reality and
                                   fantasies realm.

Dancing upon the imagery of
others thoughts and lives.
                           Living their words.

I'm a ballerina of imagery, feeding
there visual needing, I dance upon
                           their needing of word

My syllables skip
                      pages

of repetition....

A life less interesting
         but nerveless, reading on..

I'm sitting in your tiny dark kitchen
You say "Now I'm here and all is well
No need to cry, no reason to dwell."
I say "Stop kidding, sweetie, just look out the door
there's nothing there but your balcony
You may get me out of depression
But you'll never get depression out of me."