ADP and ATP,
DNA calamity.
RNA provides ridicule and cruelty.
Death note delivery.

Blood laughs and screams as it pours from slit veins.
It doesn't care about the souls its owner has stained!
What have you feigned?
What selflessness remains?
None to be sure as parasitic reality you frame.

What are we then?
Surely not worth baiting.
An existential lion's den.
But does it matter if we're waiting?
The most important question is "When?"

We exist to cause our problems,
to eliminate the heretic race.
It's a race that know one wins when,
They always have their problems to chase.

So enlighten us with,
Your sacred soul's bliss,
Or grow up from this tantrum of toil and ****.

Science of religion,
An oxymoron to say the least.
It is one thing to take the message.
Another to let your mind waste.

Savor what you have to the nucleus of your soul.
Know what makes you righteous.
Know it well and full.
Know what you live life for.
We're abiotic to assume that we "know" things we won't search for.

my heart is a machine

behind every good

                         heart

there is an even better

                         machine

                     waiting to take over

                                impulse

beat- in out in out- beat

       who needs

                      feelings

{ the constant struggle of having to

             repair the break

crashlagslow hurt

                 -reboot- (Call tech support!)

temporary no sure fix

repeat }

behind every good

                          heart

is an even better

                           machine

                 waiting to mechanize

                               bastardize

                               supplement

                  LOVE

abiotic, anaerobic, clean, pure, simple, sterile

who needs

LOVE

when metal & pistons

are so much easier to

                       understand

                       predict

                       replace/fix ?

If they can engineer esters to

smelllooktaste

like anything on earth

                   why the **** can’t that make something

taste

       {like your lips}

smell

       {like your skin; cigarette sweet with an undertone of work sweat}

feel

       {like your too rough kisses and embraces}

because maybe if they did

it might make it easier, maybe I wouldn’t miss you

so ******* much

If Little Debbie was real, I'd never be sad.
Her very presence could rid this world of all things bad.
Her perfect cakes drive away responsibility
By forcing me to focus on my bowel irritability.

If Little Debbie was real, I'd never feel lonely.
I think her stuff makes any place more homely.
With every bite I take, I gain a pound
But that's alright because no one's around

To see me for the lonely fat girl that I am
Who often mixes cucumbers with bananas and jam
Surely it's not just me who awakes and thinks
"Forget the eagle! Little Debbie is our national link."

For I believe there is nothing more patriotic
Than relying on something that's abiotic.

Silent voices will open the sky.
Desperate tentmakers will be comforted.
With rain from above that different from the usual.
Embrace the flood, go with it, collide.

Dont trust your international instinct.
Dig, dig, dig it out, search your heart.
There is something inside of you.

I know that youre in the battle now.
Between your inward and outward being.
You have been defeated by your flesh and desires.
Learn how to be giant over it.

Look at the days, the deadline has been set.
Dont allow this chronic noise disturb your silent.
Energize yourself and ignite your senses.
The grace has been poured out.

Come, lets eat the word and drink the right one.
Truly, we will not dismay, we can stand firm.
The truth will guide us into the road to eternity.
This path has a signature printed by the Creator.

As the hour goes by, this will be our nature.
We will set this city on fire, burning hot.
The biotic and abiotic will know Him.
And acknowledge Him as the Maker of all them.

Clap your hands, you low self-esteem kids.
Put your trust and believe that you will be deliver.
In all your ways acknowledge.
And He will make your path straight.

When the clocks grew silent,
Mellow abiotic laws swept away with the evening's wind
The light hit the hills with the softest envy
And the grass sat content between our toes

What became of the twilight gleanings
Pangea evaded you like the sheepish fox
Were the pieces arranged, devoid of meaning?
Trembled hands settled and stilled.

If the clover grew to touch the sun
The lonely ground sank to feel the core
And the trees whispered to the birds
Would it be a puzzle at all?

your frozen heart barely pumps slushied blood all the way to your blue fingertips
you hope for me to grab your hands and warm you even just for a second
your heart is a rock
abiotic and unbeating
just a cold weight in your chest to remind you of your lost humanity
maybe once you knew warmth
but now you don’t even shiver
you are so far gone
you treat me like ice to freeze me just as you’ve been

Looking down the barrel
Of a young adult *** life
Peril is apparent
As I spend another lone night.

Dodging gunshots,
And other times, looking for shooters.
Searching for the right moment
To escape this life of a loser.

That I might get shot one day
Is a topic of which I fantasize.
But how come I’m obsessed with this,
Yet I possess a special pride

For restricting what I have inside
And choosing to hide it away?
Make sense of this I’ve tried and tried
And it all depends on the day

Because in one hour,
I’m so glad I’m independent
And then later on,
I’ll be searching for a weapon

To come fire it’s ammunition
Of lust upon my rosy face.
It’s so built up, it’s the first time,
I’ll always know the time and place.

It’s so sought after yet so feared,
And in the end, contrarily,
I’ll just say, “is that all there is?”
And go on my solo merry way.

I’ll always see another day
And have my emotion-fueled goals.
Sensations are so stimulating,
Yet they’re so far beyond control.

So as I stare down this supposed barrel,
Defying stats by not yet being shot,
I question myself and my appearal,
And wonder to change what I've got.

Once I’m wounded forever more,
Will I love what’s new and lament what’s killed?
These sensations, I know what they’re for.
It’s nothing, I maintain with my will.

All the sensation, all this ammo,
That may or may not taint my breast,
It’s all abiotic, it’s all arbitrary,
And all it offers is a test!

Will I obsess over a barrel,
Or any other form of fire,
When what matters infinitely more
Is who is there and whose it’s guider?

Alas, it’s like a fancy food
Of which I’ll never have a taste.
For although I may one day taste this barrel,
In my heart, there’s not a place.

The trigger-puller will certainly matter,
As will any who shoot at me.
I love people, not acts or stimuli.
From fear of this barrel, I am free.

I sit in the bushes, a burglar of imagery and a thief of colour, taking from daisies and TV screens for a paper transfusion,

A plastic cup paddles up to me, a puppy who is happy for freedom from its owner, and is asking for treats, so I give it a place on my page, a personification, and a promise of immortality,

Most of this is green, no matter the domain of life it occupies, green prickles, feathers, dewdrops, spindles, and leaves on branches broken,

Under the scuffed rubber of my shoes is bland, brown right now but so often grey, the grey of the city and the abiotic entities suspended by the things that walked before me, as it carries my name I assume it is me it remembers,

I have stared at the white-lighted sun for too long, but brief glimpses of red under that lady’s heels and hidden under petals still stand out among cool counterparts,

The trees are alive, the flowers and weeds and awful bushes I hide in too, even the rocks carry the life around me an integral part in an ecosystem, which makes me wonder why in my ecosystem I can be useless, and why I am still dying,

The sun feels good but I remember being taught it should feel bad because it illuminates everything, not just the melanocytes under my skin, but the plague that stretches across my hands because I can’t help but stay awake sometimes, so I bury it in my clothes to remain uncomfortable,

It is still amazing to me that moss can grow between pavement cracks under foot soles and under the pressure of the sky a little heavier than the people above it and still have biological diversity,

I have spotted death now, inevitably, black-cobwebbed hollowed out under six-framed sides to form a stomach for things to rot in, a home for the local housefly,

I wonder then, why, around me there are also flies,

Do a U-turn: its canine calamity and sixty degrees, I can see reckless joy manifesting under wild fur and soft paw prints, spreading happy and dancing like a parasite,

The fawning parasite travels, bringing news of the sunlight, through the cracks in the pavement like the blood vessels of the city, it is carried into the grey building from which we came, causing chaotically pent-up kids to diffuse,

That’s why I’m here, isn’t it, because the grey blood vessels lead back to the blood vessels of gray.