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what if there were humans with wings
ultimate fission of mammal and bird -
scientific improbability
brought to life
hands stained red
let's say it all together now:
I'm going to hell but I just don't care
'cause we all gotta see the sun someday
It isn't sadness;
that is the biggest misconception.
People treat it like an emotion infecting a blue day,
labeling slightly soaked cheeks as this ailment of the mind.
The term is cracked like a whip in stinging insult:
weak, powerless, loser, outcast.

It is feeling a lack of feeling,
where one exists in a mental state of wanting to be anything but lethargic
yet finding nothing worthwhile inside
with which to take action:
no talent, no skill, no interest.

It is not only not believing one has any energy
but seeing nothing to which to give it,
in yourself, in others, in the world.

It is severe despondency and dejection,
consuming worlds like oozing, viscose magma
dribbling uncontrollably as burning ***** from the mountain's fiery mouth
burping filthily as is sludges onward.

It isn't sorrow, or misery, or despair.

It is inadequacy,
an ebb of interest in life,
with a sliver of interest to take it.
down withered trunks red-furred squirrels race
to twirl and dance over stony ground
watchful eyes observe from behind
glossy glass -
the veiled intent behind them yet
lies dormant;
waits to waken under freedom's call.
valleys, canyons, and rivers lie
upon my pitted,
sorrowful
palm.
hand reaches under the pillow -
flick the switch, hear the whir
screen lights up

night passes swiftly as
jedi and sith battle in your hands
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