Fall in and out of depression on a whim.
Fall in love and leave her alone on a whim.
Give a love away on a whim, and end up alone.
Give up a friend for absolutely nothing.

All my fears and hopes bury me in as I lie through my teeth, I'm losing myself to myself, to a future me that doesn't even exist.

A whim.

Ego
dissolved into a spellbound state

Access
to realms that were once beyond reach

And Like
unanticipated spaceflight

Ample
light upsurge, pumps inwards then out

Perfuse
in its race within the bloodstream

Spreading
through you, through me, Straight from heaven

Silence is an ethereal beauty,
So relinquished and hated upon,
Those who do cannot recognise.
They take no time to understand the joyous warmth.
They cannot accept and allow the time to process their own minds.
For we are not adept to allow ourselves personal reconciliation.
For the silence so many see as an entrapment is in fact such a sanctuary.
To alleviate and grow.
To process and to flow.
To develop and to understand this narrative is a means to progress,
For we should not feel trapped in our own head.

I nearly started to hyperventilate,
Because a thought occurred to me.
I thought about how long my tongue is,
And how it goes all the way down my throat.

My feet can feel the ground,
But I can’t feel my feet.

Mouth is dry,
Eyes are red,
Where is my ******* head.
I feel like a space man.
Here comes the police man.
If he asks for papers,
I will answer “scissors.”

see, atlas nearly dropped the world at the first sign of tremors
and gaia would've blown her top with wrath
and it nearly toppled sisyphus' boulder til it crushed him
but the 'nearly' doesn't matter 'cause the world's still in his grasp

and if paris picked selene, we might've had a heart-shaped moon
but we got the trojan shitshow, millions died
and we nearly went extinct just 'cause some ******* greek was *****
but the 'nearly' doesn't matter since we just about survived

There’s this crazy house but
Where? No one really knows.
And it’s full of poems, not a line of prose.
And even though the sky’s the roof
all the doors are closed.
She keeps the whole place clean
and neat so anyone can see
that what she’s really after is Possibility.

For this is the Dickinson rag, yea, yea,
this is the Dickinson rag.

There was that carriage, sweet and slow -
Sunday driver – stop and go.
He picked her up along the way -
It seems it was the end of day,
and they drove to some strange mound -
damp and musty, underground.
Was her gossamer gown a bit transparent?
Cause the guy’s intentions weren’t apparent.
I guess she really liked the ******
Cause she wrote him poems in great number.

For this is the Dickinson rag, yea, yea,
This is the Dickinson rag.

Her characters are really weird -
Those roses “out of town?”
Wish I’d gone along with them –
but I got no scarlet gown.
Yea, Emily, your verses rock,
but I know I’m not alone
In not quite understanding
what means “zero to the bone”.

And that’s the Dickinson rag, yea yea,
that’s the Dickinson rag.