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Johnnie Woods Aug 2018
There are five widely known senses.
Sight, hearing, touch, smell and taste.
We've got some minor ones as well, such as balance, temperature and many more.
However, people fail to realise that there's also the sixth major sense. Thoughts themselves.

   If we look closely, all these five senses have the same base. Specified cells in eye react to energy of light, cells of ear recieve energy in form of air's vibrations, skin cells pick up energy of mechanical changes, and so tasting and hearing depend on translation of certain substances' chemical energy.
   These cells in different organs differ in their structure and the way they appear, however, if we stop looking at them in such small scale, we can see that ALL of the cells or organs responsible for any sense translate the energy.
   So, a light enters the eye, certain wavelenght of certain energy stimulates the eye's rod or cone cells with a certain intensity. Then the energy of light is translated to energy of electrical impulse, which goes straight to the brain, creating the sensation of sight.
   If it comes to smell, a certain particle enters the nose, binds to a smell receptor cell, and the chemical energy of this particle is, again, translated to energy of electrical impulse, which goes straight to the brain, creating the sensation of smell.

   Now, let's move to the crucial part. The sense of thoughts.
   During the creation of thought, pathways in our brain that collect memories(and many more known or unknown pathways) connect. First, there's this spark of electricity, that moves all along the neuron and releases a dose of neurotransmitters(amount of different NTs is equiavlent to strength of this spark, basically resulting in "creating" various thoughts).
Then, chemical energy of NEUROTRANSMITTER is translated to energy of electrical impulse, which happens in the brain, creating the sensation of thought.
   Therefore the 'sense of thoughts' reacts to and is stimulated by neurotransmitters themselves, with receptors on neurons' membrane being receptors of the stimulus. So, kind of like smell, the stimulus is chemical, compared to sight, where it's electromagnetic wave; anyways the result in all of these is electric impulse in neurons (hence the idea of "thoughts" as a sense, due to the same basic layout; transfer of energy).
   The 'smell particle' connects to receptor and is translated to a certain amount of neurotransmitters/certain strenght of neuronal impulse. SO, again, we can see that when the first outer layer of this communication is cut off, we're left only with the neurotransmitters and impulses themselves. Anyway, the transduction of energy remains.

   If it comes to "sense of thoughts" the receptor lies within us, whereas in sight or smell or touch it's external. However, does it matter if it's on the surface of skin or under it if it all comes down to neurons of our brain?
   When you lie in a dark, silent room, without any external stimuli, you still retain your thoughts, colorful, vivid or complex. All the magic of the brain - still happens. So, how isn't it a separate, full-fledged sense?
J McDevitt Jun 2013
Deep inside the heart collides
With the majesty that is the sun.
And polyps grow on feet below -
Where the grandeur is forced to shun.

Grey gritty gravel gets jammed
Between my toes,
And flies through a rolled up twenty
To stay wedged far in my nose.

If sinus’s are clogged like pours,
Scratched by a Cheetos finger,
The rocks get stuck and Id mocks
While the crush starts to linger;

Numbs the cavity where inside lives
A thousand hungry hippies
Sitting still until they see
A cloud up on a water lily.

So set out to feed their queen bee
Whom lives inside the skull
(And) demands, commands, yearns and pleads
To feel that numbing null.
Rollie Rathburn Dec 2016
For William and Meredith


For treatment of panic and anxiety disorders,
short-acting anxiolytics are generally recommended
to provide temporary bursts of clarity
but should be reassessed periodically for
usefulness and concerns regarding tolerance,
dependence,
and abuse.

Xanax releases dopamine into the brain
to function as a neurotransmitter to send signals
between nerve cells
including reward motivated behavior
and pathways known to reinforce addictive neuronal activity

Perhaps to build her,
you had to break yourself
amongst the glass of that summer day.
Leave her waiting for your hair to peek
around a weathered edge
toward a forgotten living room corner

You are still her Patron Saint.
A long shadow cast across a small ghost.

She still screams at the sky to stop raining
beats her fists down the path
to the house of death
unceasing, and changeless.
Prodding a dull,
familiar
wound.
One that leaves its mark,
with pain felt more
from memory
than from anything else.


Withdrawal and rebound symptoms commonly occur and
necessitate a gradual reduction
to minimize the effects of discontinuation.
Not all withdrawal effects are evidence
of true dependence or withdrawal.

Recurrence may suggest no more
than the drug having the expected effect
and that,
in the absence of the drug,
the symptom has returned to pretreatment levels.
Eli Smith Jan 2015
She tells me happiness is a choice.
That one day I can just magically wake up and everything will go away.
That if I tell myself I am happy enough times it will come true.
A "self-fulfilling prophecy"
She tells me that I am a victim of circumstance
And that the key to being happy is letting go.
The synapses in my brain scream otherwise, pleading for serotonin.
You see, depression is a disease
Thoughts struggle to travel from neurotransmitter to neurotransmitter.
Synapses feel as vacant and as large as the grand canyon you see
It's so easy to get lost in there.
I wish it was as simple as choosing to be happy
I'd choose to be happy.
I ask her,
When did I choose to feel this sad?
Did I just wake up one morning and decide, "Oh, i'll choose to feel like wanting to die today"
They tell me I've been here before.
They tell me that this is an illusion.
I have been here before. I just cannot remember.
I cannot remember being this sad.
But I choose to sit in class struggling to recollect even the simplest things.
I choose to hate going out.
I choose to stay up all night
It's just a choice.
Julianna Eisner Mar 2014
O broken and battered beatnik!
My tormented kindred spirit!
  I offer you a hundred lifetimes of my self-condemnation
  How can I deny finding portals to your spirit and soul with such ease any
longer?
  Only now how to reach you out on the physical plane...

Kick down my door painted black so I may crumble in your ****** arms like a poorly constructed sand fortress, sobbing salty tears of regret, wiping snot-nosed drivel onto your cotton-wool blended Ceredigion suit

I'm sorry!
I'm sorry!

Let me explain the truths of my hesitant trust, battered and bruised -- like affectionate kisses on the cheek with open and closed fists
and childhood neglect turned adult isolation -- like visitations in dank bars with hitchhiking mothers

Let me tell you how I closed my eyes as they saddled up to the roulette table,
Licking their wintery chapped lizard lips, and
  rubbing together their sticky hands
Placing their lucky chip
(free with the price of admission!)
On bets
Red.
    Black.
        Odd.
             Even.
I tried to rig the loaded ivory ball to fall on odds Green, Double Zero
house's edge
                                                              ..­.but...
Momentum lost,
Screams muffled as I saw them
  parade in celebration
Blowing trumpets and twirling batons,
  taming dancing bears in crinoline tutus

What have I done!?
What have I done!?

Punish me no more as I cower in my remorse!
Remove this needle from my tongue!
So I may provide the unheard voice in your narrative gap
When I found you alone, in an empty theatre, heaved there by a
  force so Divine
Never could I have conjured up a Love so true!
  Ohhhh! The tears!

Let us construct resolutions of brick and mortar placed
  hand-over-hand
Become co-conspirators and together
  build parallel neural pathways in our
       Meta-Mind
Our synaptic impulses firing in unison as
One
  neurotransmitter
We'll scribe the words spoken in real time
  pulling inspirations from our restful dreamlands
    coiled together in fetal spoons

I am here!
I am here!

Please grant unto me my only request,
allow me to hermit here awhile in this new warm home where I feel safe       and happy and fearlessly blissful
A quiet refuge
   most needed to rest my Self
Away from siren squawks that
   deafen feather-tufted ears
I may venture out for the news or for weekend browsing in local record         shops, but
      here
is where I reside and come home to you each night
Keep my literal words as a gift only to you
(But please paint dazzling murals with abracadabra brushstrokes, with every colour!)
Do not pass around my sacred scripts of our lore (we've been warned)
My trust is the most honourable endowment you could recieve, please cherish it as you so deserve
Give this unto me and I will give you
           an
        infinite
        well of
       musings
         and a
         legend
            for
            the
           ages!

I love you!
I love you!

O broken and battered beatnik!
Tortured kindred spirit!
  I offer you a hundred lifetimes of my devotion
  Your spirit and soul my course of navigation!
  Using compass and stars, meet me
  Wandering cautiously out on physical plains

I love you!
Emoni Jenkins Nov 2013
The first time I shot dope
My mind bended
Transcended
This ******* existence
I rose out of my skin
And took a good look in side of myself
I elevated
I saw everything at once
Evaporated
And allowed myself to become nothingness

The first time snorted speed
I watched my entire life flash before my eyes
And got bored
I felt the vibrations and manipulations of every neurotransmitter in my brain
Went literally insane
Chasing rain drops
Off of roof tops
Because I believed I could fly
Or at least that somebody would catch me

The first time I smoked ****
I got so lost in my own metaphysical thought
That they had to send someone in after me
My sticky fingers cradling a bowl like an infant
As my cotton lined tongue spewed insightful nonsense about homelessness
And they laughed at me
Didn't they know I was changing the world?

The first time I drank
The warmth of whiskey cover my body like a blanket
I felt safe in his arms
And for the first time I could be someone other than myself
Many keys can open the gateway to hell

For years
These friends of mine beat my body black and blue
And I would crawl to them
****** and bruised
Begging for more
And to this day
I still miss them
I hear them calling to me
Pulling me back into their game
And a part of me
Still wants to play
tc Oct 2018
i watch the clock tick to 2 milliseconds past 1900 hours and i remember how, at 2 milliseconds past 1400 hours, just 5 hours earlier, i was cradling you in bed
it was warm and we were interlocked and you looked heavenly
the glow of the sunshine a halo around a face full of sleep and too beautiful even for poetry.
i try to verbalise you, try to write you down to make your existence more fathomable –
i cannot.
there are no words for a heart that beats honey through soft-skinned veins,  that swirls around your mouth like saliva and you taste so **** sweet.
i told my doctor i have a sweet tooth, what i meant was i am addicted to you; what i meant was i can’t stop waking up in the middle of the night to fix the cravings i have when you aren’t there.
what i meant was, sometimes i sleep walk, find myself at
platform number 5 of the same station i left you at hours before hoping that some sweet fragrance of you still lingers.
i watched the clock tick to 2 milliseconds past 1900 hours and i watched the train move away in slow motion.
i watched your face until i couldn’t see it anymore and i have never felt longing like it. suddenly i felt like a lost kid at the supermarket trying to find their parent and i wanted to scream for you to come back because although this train moved in slow motion i swear 2 milliseconds passed and you were gone.
i tried not to blink because i didn’t want to miss a single moment.
i sent you “i love you” through a screen that is too familiar to me now and felt the itch of my craving against my spine –
i will wait for you.
i replay the last kiss in my head; it was probably our seventieth goodbye kiss because each one didn’t encompass all the love we needed to express before the train departed and i taste honey.
i cannot make your existence more fathomable because that would mean to understand you and in all your complexity, i never want to stop learning –
so please,
allow me to explore your mind in every neurotransmitter, in every dopamine dosage, in every fight or flight reaction; allow me to explore what it is to be you and let me write you into every poem i ever produce, let me hallucinate you into every city street, cast your reflection in every shop window, replace every tin of beans with jars of honey and settle like dust on my lips –
i will wait for you.
every day, i wait for you.
Sieve Jan 2014
poetry comes and goes
opens and flows
spills into streams of prose
amidst the musical rows of my thoughts.

forms and rhythms
which melt and morph and sing into being
the abstractions of synaptic connections,
write into existence
the chemical signals of neurotransmitter gossip,
and transfer to the Symbolic
the electrical impulses of the Real

scratch and peel the caulk
from the edges of The Faucet,
turn and wind the wheeled handles open,
open, open.
Past lefty loosey and into
the outpouring of pent up pressure;
raw, and juicy.

Poetry is ***, death and magic.
The art of training the mind's faucets
elastic.
Paul Hardwick May 2014
Two nerves cells
and across the finite gap
an impulse passes
and diffusion of a
neurotransmitter
begins
passing down to my stupid mind
and the words i think
seam to dance
and do a little jig
and so my thoughts
begin.
out in the mountains,
when my feet are pressed and purpled
from pushing the world to roll her callused breast,
then each breath, deservingly,
funnels the friction into fire.

but here our milk flesh thumbs
flick the ridges of the flint
and through trees we **** a Bic
just to exhale flame again.

oh-two deprived at altitude
or getting high with all the dudes
you’d count them as two trails that lead to the same place

but that’s just what the map says.
neurotransmitter math has
sold, by weight, the dopamine
wrapped like gods great gift
in threads of nervous lace

and you forget that different paths
never summit the same
if steep, or shallow, the peak can be
epiphany pleasure or just good ****

in green pill bottles, they trap the trees
and plastic cages hang on me
when the weight of our minds
bends our necks towards the asbestos sky
where porous plains of ceiling tile
have us counting holes in the light

so you see my disappointment,
when you were too ****** or drunk or cold
and said it would be better
if we just went inside

as we circled up the stairwell
you stepped easily on plaster pieces
of white ceiling that had fallen to concrete

perhaps it is from fear
that some can find a comfort
having heavens built so brittle
that they crumble within reach
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2022
502 bad gateway bypass...
title: shattering of stone
body:
in the rubble: a mountain could
be found;
as might be suggested...
given enough time and there's plenty
of it, as there is of space...
the now known deserts of the world...
were once great mountain ranges...
the ancient Egyptians even tried
to replicate this truth by erecting pyramids...
as if implying: look! look!
there were once mountains here!
now! there's nothing but sand!
how the gods, grunted at the idea of mountains
in what is not Sahara... fickle creatures
like the creatures they created are...
who knows... perhaps there will one day
be the desert of Himalaya...


i felt it coming at me like a freight train...
i was going in for work sharp...
woke up at 6am, had a coffee and ate the prepared
bun with pickles and liver pate...
but couldn't finish it... drank a coffee and smoked
a cigarette... had a shower, pampered myself
with about 7 different pampering products...
usually i'm obviously to how i smell like...
but on the bus i could quiz myself:
who here smells like soap and who here smells
like either stale bread or a curry / eggs?
that's the 86 route for you...
it's the immigrant bus... and... funnily enough...
i'm an immigrant myself... although...
it's different when you come to foreign shores
aged 8... and thrown into the education system
rather than bypass all that jazz & enter the work
force... by immigrant status i'm a veteran of sorts...
by 7am the pains and spasms in my abdomen were
becoming excruciating... i could feel
a plug-hole of a **** building up...
      like a bear before retiring to hibernation...
i wouldn't be able to just simply, **** this plug-hole
of a **** out before or on the job...
why? because there would be more to come...
dizzying effects of focus...

i was nervous... she said she would be coming to
do a shift today... who? Jeminah...
she sent me a text telling me how anxious she was...
i figured... the best... blatant: covert question
would be... you worried the trains are not working?
oh... you can get the 86 bus... the tube might be open...
pulling a long long stick...
a lever even... something Archimedes would
use to lift a mountain off the ground...
she felt anxious... oh... because of those two storms?
Eunice - the worst for 30 years...
red weather alerts? you worried about that?
i was seriously stroking a massive bear silly...
she felt anxious for all the reasons i wanted her
to feel anxious about...
n'ah... the way to get to the venue wasn't on her mind...
neither was the weather...
she was found out... she didn't want to be in
the company of the other girls...
and because i put my foot down:
this is getting silly... i'm not going to get blamed
for your son's and her son's friendship fallout...
telling the truth...
    what a recurrent theme with me these days...
well... at least its not a soap opera style of
a multiverse of competing dramas...
there's only one... and i'm fortifying myself with
all the right answers... i need to play this out
like an opera... petty **** that can grow and grow like
that must be explored from many angles...
down the line...

she didn't show up... the other two girls involved
acted slightly funny... she must have passed on
my Pontius Pilate messages: i'm washing my hands clean
of the matter... you girls created this issue...
you sort it... those two boys are not falling out
over something their mums did...

handshakes all round... two clingers...
one ****** with a nervous tick but one guy with
cerebral palsy... well... oddly enough...
having been a recluse for almost a decade...
i have managed to surprise myself by fitting the role
of a people person... i don't know where i was storing
this confidence... self-assurance... stoic silence...
i don't feel the need to talk unless talked to...
sure... i might say an anecdote or two:
how Millwall fans at Fulham told me a joke
about a West Ham player who's fond of kicking
cats... cat lives matter...

the shift itself... West Ham are back to their usual
antics of not respecting lesser opponents...
Newcastle are on a campaign trail to survive
in the Premier League... two of their best players weren't
playing: yet they still managed to draw 1 - 1...

who do you think are going to fall?
i says: Burnley had it coming for the past two years...
yeah... Watford is a boomerang team...
one season on the Premier level...
the next on the Championship level...

seems i can have much fun with people,
whether coworkers or the actual public...
the freaks among the coworkers follow me like
dogs, while the public?

an old lady wanted me to use her camera to take
photographs with the West Ham mascots:
some bear mascot was first, then Harry the Hammer...
i had to tap Harry's shoulder when a father asked me
to call him back while he moved along the stand
so he could go back and have a photograph taken
with his kid: so heavily padded he almost didn't feel
my touch...
but he went back...
then that retired police officer that took my side
when some busy-body ***** of a: not my supervisor
kept on demanding i put on a face mask...
that infernal: secular niqqab...
the retired police officer noted: he's distraught...
**** the club: if they can think they can get away
imposing their own rules: all staff must wear ******
coverings... this busy-body even said:
i don't you not covering your nose...
so, what then? my chin is capable of breathing?!
scale of escalation... the from me to the supervisor
to the busy-body third part...
the ex-police officer used the hypothetical
argument: but i have a deaf person, friend,
sitting next to me: he needs to lip read...
how is he going to read my instructions if he can't
see my mouth...
and then... well... i wasn't bothered...
wearing these nappies always brings back
memories of my grandfather's funeral...
he was a big deal in a small-town where i was
born... a foreman in the metallurgy industry...
he knew a lot of people...
but how many showed up to his funeral?
not even the half that i'd have expected...

we kept chatting... my supervisor later came up
and asker me... so...   ?!
oh... you know, we just talked about life...
his father was a widower... living in Cornwall...
he used to get free grub from the local (pub),
but when the pandemic hit...
he lost all WILL to live...
and me says: you know how people say that
you can die from a broken heart,
i guess you can also die from being denied
WILL... we agreed... we shook hands about x3...
like a post-scriptum he asked me for my name
and i asked for his... Mark...
now living in East Sussex... but originally from
Dartford...

Mark said he had thick skin... and i told him...
your eyes are watering... i don't believe it...
looking at them feels like watching a very bountiful
aquarium... you're not going to fool me mate...
life... plus, it's not against the law to not wear
the *****... as i later said:
now you get to see who the people with OCD
and the hypochondriacs are...
yeah: it feels weird... i'm walking around without
the "*****" while my wife is still paying
servitude to outlaw rules...
but if they want to... why deny them the right...
sure sure...

but i had to use a member of the public
to infiltrate the hierarchy on the job...
he used the proper arguments... i was just thinking:
perhaps people just want to see my face...
recognise it... see ****** expressions...
after all: we've been playing a game of pretending
to be Muslim women for two years...
how about we start playing hide & seek once more?

what happened later... the curiosity of the children...
i looked at them, smiled, they smiled back...
they felt so comforted... they felt like:
well... thank god this cubist-esque freak-show is
running and hiding... little girls, little boys...

like i told Mark: but the young 'ung suffered... too...
you need to see people faces,
i might have slouched with the expression
of "****** recognition"... but expressions matter...
you sometimes have to out the tongue to the face...
you want to see someone laugh,
at ease... nowhere near the culture & the people
of Afghanistan... this might have to be the building
block of the supposed "great" restart...
seeing people's faces...
esp. when it comes to children...
they want to see faces they can trust...

but it's outright blatant...
i'm not going to make a comparison between
The Beatles "vs." The Rolling Stones...
for me it always been
Bruce Springsteen "vs." Chris Rea...
no... can't choose...
who the **** do i couple Bob Dylan with?
i'm currently sipping some whiskey while
in the company of ol' Bruce...
ah... Bob Dylan vs. Tom Waits...
        Tommy 'ol boyo...
                    live circus... going out west (live)...
Tom Petty though...

there was one expulsion... a ginger she-male...
all the fans were laughing: don't give her out...
the SIA guys were playing gorillas while
i was on my break... putting my hand on the shoulder
of the hurt party... calm... calm... you ginger ostrich...
stop pandering to the parade of:
already lost teenage hormones...
it sort of worked... i giggled... and no one
became involved... i chewed on my gum like i
like might have been found chewing on a broomstick
or a horses' mane...
i chewed so hard until my jaw hurt...

Tom Waits - going out west (live)...
now we're talking...
prior to Prince dying: you had not access to
songs like Party-man... Trust... all copyrighted
material... yeah.... but i own the best of CD...
why can't i stream it?!
oh, right... he's dead... free-for-all...
free meat for the crows...

why oh why would someone walk up to me
and ask to take a selfie with me?
yeah... this American accented dude...
i watched him through the second half...
off his nuts...
but at half time he walks up to me and asks...
can i take a selfie with you?
sure... weird...
am i famous?! or am i just ****** approachable...
all the other stewards are like bricks in
a mountain: but mountains don't have bricks...
or they're over-anxious busy bodies...
it's like people never learned their NVQ training...

safety, security, service....
the service part is the building part...
you pass off being attired in safety / security tactics...
but... service comes first...
you talk, you interact... you learn to be human...
one year of this, before i ask for being given references...
that's when i'll work toward looking toward a more
permanent employment as a chemistry
teacher... even though... scribbling this sort of *******:
i'd love to become an English teacher...
ha ha... an English teacher... even though i'm not
English...

i need the references... working with my father in
roofing... no, can, do...
they don't want familial ties in references...
one year... i'd still do these gigs on the weekend...
but one year...
you get a chance to deal with a football crowd...
you got a belt... when it might come to dealing
with a classroom of rowdy children...
like Louis XIV stated... it's the trick of the eye...
look the authoritative type...
there's nothing more to it...

then these three supporters at the front...
when they first started singing the song for the cat-lives-matter
footballer who was more into... kicking
cats than a football... how did the lyrics go?
almost Dr. Seuss...
he kicks with his right foot... he kicks with his
left foot... i pursed my lips... i tried to cover my
face with my hand... all the while trying to as
instructed: not taking sides... not showing emotions...

but their remarks came fast... i must have looked
interesting...
so where are you from?
Russia? guess again... Ukraine? nope...
Czech Republic? nope... ******! yep...
but i've been living here since the age of 8...
and i'm 35...
have a nice life: she said... one of them was
ginger... presuppositions of Irish... the beard was
pulled... oh my god, the girl looked proper, proper,
drunk...
i went on a break... i came back:
oh! he's back! you know you're the only one
without a hood on! all the other stewards...
the guy who's usually here is somewhat asleep
while prying open his phone...
where's your pancho against the rain?
oh... i gave it to a spectator... blah blah...

point being... i was actually waiting for her...
Jeminah... all the time... she didn't show up...
i've just received a text from her...
what is... drotaverini hydrochloridum?
i had to take it today...
a rubric of buzzwords...
it sells alongside suggestions akin to the morning-after
pill...

well, it will be a rubric of buzzwords...
i had to take some pills for the cramps in my stomach...
it just felt like one of those Sprintsteen,
Chris Rea, Bob Dylan, Tom Petty sort of nights:
when you feel nervous about thinking bout
a girl while simultaneously feeling nervous
about taking a ****... so you feel like taking a ****
at 7am but delay it to until 5pm... 6pm...
because the girl's easting away at your mind...
you're getting cramps in your abdomen
like you you're about to do a clown trick
with balloons turning them into theoretical poodles...
because you just love the girl:
you just love the girl...
she might be a single mother, she might think
she's a woman... but she's just a girl to you...
even though you're not her father...

oh right... the buzz... words... as someone who studied
chemistry i should know what drotaverini hydrochloridum
is... it's for the abdomen cramps...
for: i ought to have taken a ****...
but here's me stalling...
will she, will you come?
DROVATERINE....
an antispasmodic drug...
   used to enhance cervical dilation during child-birth...
i'm giving birth: to a feeling...
i think i'm in love... she's all anxious...
Bruce's: Maria's Bed... yeah... i'm on that same page
in this story...
esp. noted use in Asia and Central Europe...
i'll be lazy: i'll cite it verbatim:
it's structurally related to papaverine,
is a selective inhibitor of phosphodiesterase 4
and has no anticholinergic effects...

the way i see it... i'm giving birth to love....
i want her fat **** to sit on my face...
sorry... what?!
i'm being absolutely serious...
just looks up the article on Anticholinergics...
i don't have a womb...
but i have a heart that seems to have
sunken into the levels of the intestines...
while i get all spaghetti tangles
for brains...
i'm in love... i can't help it...
she a cougar red head... a deep red...
a mahogany red...
i can't stop thinking about her...
it's exactly impossible to live:
without having to think about her...
anxious cluck by cluck...
if she's not going to abide by failures in life
then... no... life's not worth living without her:
when she's at her pinnacle of failure...
let me pick her up...
let's pretend there's an old world
worth looking at... that there might be a world war
in the theatre... none of these proxies in
the H'American department of... up-keeping
hard-ons and kaleidoscope coyotes...
now for the text messages... why weren't you around?!

i wrote this yesterday, i went downstairs for sone grub
because i couldn't fall asleep...
my mother came down... saw me in my TOMBSTONE
mode... drunk... what? you want me to punch
myself in the face? lucky for her, lucky for me
i remained silent, because the night was silent...
she ****** off i ****** off... today i made mein vater
und mein mutter some ******
chicken broth with vermicelli...
all the usual suspects were used...
the leek, the parsley root, the carrot,
the garlic (skin on), the celery... chicken... d'uh...
although i didn't use the chicken *******...
that's going to be used for a curry...
  
and what are my other options? living alone?
paying rent to a landlord from hell?!
shame... sure... but the attic is full of clutter
and there is no basement...
plus i have a private library the deservedly might
need a proper: HEAVE! HEAVE!
50 oars...

i'm in love and not for all the right reasons...
if my youth took the route of an atypical man...
starting from 20 working my way up...
yeah... but i went mad at the age of 21...
******* invisible choir, great wind dispersing it...
psychiatry that tried to attempt its regression
tactics of implanting me with false memories...
giving me anti-psychotic drugs that fattened me up
until a nurse said:
you either loose weight... or you'll be put
on high-blood pressure tablets...
so... i bought a bicycle... lost 20kg... cycled off
into the sunset...
now... 35... years old... oh... look...
they're looking... they're actually interested...
the young girls have: "woken up"...
yeah... by now? i'm not interested...
i don't and i didn't pay much attention
to the game of genes... it's a fractional impossibility...
unless you're cloning yourself...
by the time you're a grandfather...
only a quarter of you remains...
  why bother with the argument?
        it's silly...Darwinistic unrealism has always been
a thorn in my side...
eh?                            my genes have my consciousness?
i'm... translatable to future generations?
sure... but they can't be my own...
why would i be interested in young girls...
if things worked out for me like they might have
worked out for other men...
a walking *****... and spare parts of monetary dough...
i never wanted to make money...
i took the principle left around for others to see...
between the aesthetic and the ascetic...
well... St. Francis of Assisi...
other men in my position: who have hungered and
been left out in their 20s... now in their 30s can have
their comeback...
their revenge... me? i'm trying to court
a woman 4 years older than me... with a boy
that's 11 years old...
i said: bully them into teaching your German...
you know, it's the mother tongue of English...
grammatically the two languages are very much
aligned... Fredrick... "bully" them into making
you learn Deutsche... i said BULLY i implied:
persuade... do i need to use sign language...
finally... though... a third head on the Hydra...
if i had a little Frankenstein in my possession...
i could be learning Deutsche proper with him....
a youngling like that... sponge for brains...
maybe i could teach him some of my ****** zunge...
wow... no no... that's the whole point of turning
toward art... by 35 i could have been earning
100+ £... yawn... no, truly...
playing this to-and-fro with younger girls
because i now might have status...
not much fun... to be exacting...
single mum... problems at school...
you should learn German rather than French...
he understood it splendidly...

             just you wait... i'll get him into modern German
folk music... did i buy her off with my homemade wine
and him with my own made banana loaf with hazelnuts?!
here's to me!
salute!

              - on these isles for most of my life...
35 - 8 = 27... twenty-seven ******* years!
and no chance at a pluck at the Rose...
up north she was giving it up to grooming gangs
from Pakistan... down south...
shy ******* nunnery: "all of a sudden"!
but now... ah... this... hybrid of Scotch and English
stock... i'm shuddering... i'm still getting these
cramps in my abdomen that says:
you have a womb... what?! i'm transgender?!
what the ****?!

that's why i didn't want to earn money...
well... it's not that i didn't want to...
you see what happens when you go mad aged
21... and how you figure things out...
at least now i'm not a target...
i don't have anything to offer expect for...
knowledge...
it's a blessing...
since... it's hardly what any woman wants...
women tend to want only their own advice...
they conjure this advice like witches conjure up...
perhaps the rosemary herb
goes well with lamb... but like the Turkish
broads suggested... but if you add it to beef...
oh! mein! gott! the Turkish lavash!
with that red onion & parsley roughage of
a side salad... mouth-watering stuff...
i don't really need to see the competitive hard-on
of whatever Sultan to counter the Hagia Sophia...
just that beef lavash...
and yes, you'd be wrong... English cheddar
works just as well...

but... i'm no Frank O'Hara... there's no qualm in
me about not being a painter...
why i'm not a painter translates to me as:
why am i not a painter?
i abhor colours... well... i like some more than
others... the amber and the auburn...
the greens... whiskey... autumn...
but when it comes to movies?
i prefer them to be black & white... less strain
on the eyes...
if images are moving? black & white...
sure... no one is expected to paint in black & white...
like no one is expected to write in
rainbow hieroglyphics... i can stand for an hour
beside a colour painting...
it doesn't move, i don't move...
time, the world: moves...
fair enough...
but colour-riddled movies?
a strain on the eyes...
    why am i not a painter?
                     why am i not a narrator?!
i'm clearly neither... what's the middle ground?
priest? psychiatrist? *******... poet?!
oh you have to be choking me to make me joke...
let alone laugh... but i'm not rhyming...
but there was a time and a place
when people identified this art with
a need for mathematics... measure... ticture...
rhyme... music...
like **** that's happening now: proper...

- perhaps it's not painting, i think it;s painting,
perhaps lacking in colour, perhaps lacking in contorts..
in shapes, in disguises...
what? no traffic light: goes green?
no traffic light remains red?
no middle ground for the amber?
no cyclist prepped to be the shepherd of traffic?
to leech onto a truck where he might be
visible... to orientate the roundabout congestion?
no one, ever, minded, this?!
before moi!
           oh... what shame... what utter shame...
we were supposed to help each other out...
not be these... petty demigods...
silly ******* idiots...

             i might have to reiterate my stance...
she's giving me the love-ups making me feel like a woman...
i'm getting cramps in my abdomen...
sure... i ought to have taken a **** 7 hour prior...
but i keep it in... like a bear about to hibernate:
a plug-hole ****...

- anticholinergic agent are substances that block the action of the neurotransmitter called acetylcholine (ACh) at synapses in the central and peripheral nervous system...

-  anticholinergics are divided into two categories in accordance with their specific targets in the central and peripheral nervous system and at the neuromuscular junction: antimuscarinic agents, and antinicotinic agents (ganglionic blockers, neuromuscular blockers...

she says she's anxious... i'm nervous too!
i'm getting cramps in my stomach...
i'm giving birth to love...
i want access to her son... i want to learn Deutsche
with him... is that too much to ask?
i don't have the sort of money
to access younger, fertile, girls...
i'm left with single mothers... MUFFAS...
oh... she's rounded... like the earth ought to be...

i'm still shy on one reply...

Apologies for the lateness of this message, came home and "had to", i.e. wanted to make some Silesian gnocchi with beef in a dill and a horseradish sauce... cooking for three, it takes time, then I fought up on some footie... was soaked at West Ham, but it was a good shift.... so what happened to you? Weren't you supposed to come? I found out late that the tube was working, managed to use it on the way back... so what happened? What were you anxious about? The bad weather the day before? I took a walk for a newspaper when the storms hit... it was almost fun-windy... at one point I stood rooted in one place for about 3sec being unable to move... the winds almost roared, i even stopped listening to music on my headphones as I listened to the wind whizz by and ruffle the trees... sort of like ASMR but with a loud speaker... I imagined the wind ruffling the trees like someone brushing their hair on an ASMR video... you feeling better though, yes? You doing Fulham this week?

but we're talking about a psychotic girl...
one layer of narrative against another...
she might as well conjure up
a missing 13 year old cousin
to just test you...
thar's how it works...
this reality, this ugly "thing"...
and the deviances of how much
i want to sleep with her...
there... i said it... beautiful view.
Jordan Hoiberg Feb 2014
My only regret
Is that my muse can't be mainlined
Or that you projectile ***** words
When you don't sleep 3 days
Or maybe that I don't sweep scraps
From the orange candy's factory floor

Straight into my mouth

If I could I'd never sleep again
I'd call it fixer
And keep it at an hour's call
To trump my teacher's bluff
Stacking aces in the hole

It's the doctor's orders
The doctor said
"An Adderall a day keeps distraction away"
Orange candy keeps the apathy at bay

The doctor called the brain stupid
For not making Adderall a neurotransmitter
And I'll talk about him when they call me a child prodigy for all the work I've done
And the pharm reps make me a posterboy
I'll tell the whole world
how they called me failure to thrive after two years treatment
I'll tell them "look at me now!"
Ruminating on that last perfect fire
Snapped between synapses
Anxiously plunging forward
Look at me
Tony Scallo Nov 2014
I ask you to take me by the hand,
But you grab me by the soul
I never wanna let go
It's an out of the body experience
I’m dreaming, lucidly
And all I see,
Is how your eyes lock with mine,
Caught in such a divine, stare

And your hair?
I need no prayers
It has me believing,
When the light shines,
A halo atop your crown
Reflecting subtle shades of brown
And streaks of auburn, that burn
A feisty red color into your character,
That you are an angel,
When their strands hit the light,
At just the right angle

Forgive all my babble,
But I really love when the wind comes
And sweeps your hair to light of the sun,
It makes me become undone
Because pearlescent colors reveal themselves,
Within each and every strand
Like nature had planned,
This extravagant ban, for all genes obscene,
To be ousted and cleaned
From your code, like you know
The path you need to go,
To bring your heart closer,
To be one with my own

Forgive me, on shorthand
I made a list, unplanned,
To say why I like being your true biggest fan
I love for all the things that you stand,
And how you interlock with my hands,
Do you even understand?
When i’m feeling depressed,
Your love always expands,
My thoughts sink into you,
Like toes in the sand
I’m sailing a ship,
That isn’t one manned
And there is no other land
That has love that’s this grand,
The feelings so perfect
Everything else is so bland,
No matter how much you scanned
Beyond subconscious demands
You still make my heart go
bam, bam, bam
Like the drum of a band
I must give you a hand
Cause *******,
You are just so beautiful

Right down to that smile,
That’ll make me stay for a while
It is a drug that I need
And i’ll admit, I have greed
But I just can’t help
With the way that you wear it,
I always stare at it
Because it’s like no other souls,
You’ve been broken and cold
And know what it means to be happy
So the smiles not ******
It’s genuine and from the heart,
I wish to never be apart, from the gleam
That shines from those teeth
Because it’s the epitome of happiness

You have me wrapped in this, envelope
Sealed with a kiss from the lips
That are soft like your hips
They make me weak to the touch, I feel you
And your ever changing vibrations
I could never grow jaded
Or permanently faded
You’re an everlasting adventure
That I dare to go venture,
On and beyond,
Just the tip of the ice burg
I don’t know if you’ve heard,
But I like the flip side, of your mind
That can be dark at times
It keeps me from ever becoming so blind
To your light, and the fight
That comes to you at night,
When demons come play with thoughts that cause fright,
It reminds me, not to be
Condescending to views
Like I’m the only one who’s dark,
But now I know you

And yes it is true,
Your kiss tends to pursue
The dark inside me, and make it turn it a new
Leaf, When I speak
My mind clears and it peaks,
Your touch pushes my limits,
Making bad thoughts extinguish
If that doesn’t work,
I’m berserk, and won’t crack
You send chills up my back,
With oxytocin on the attack,
A neurotransmitter queen,
You make me a dopamine fiend,
For the love that you beam,
It sings and it screams

Like a light, down corridors of my heart
At the times they are dark
You make me restart
With a spark, and I feel
As it circulates through me
The feeling is bliss
Without it, I grow envy
Of others who have it,
I couldn’t begin to imagine
What it’d be like if I never established,
This feeling, I get
When I stare deep into your eyes
It’s like a world without lies,
Where people don’t have any knives,
To stab you in the heart or behind in the back,
Payback, doesn’t attack, me
When I’m together with you
The things that we do, bring those thoughts to subdue

Like laying with you, looking up to the sky
Through day and through night,
The view’s always alright,
If you’re right there, with your beautiful hair
Staring out with me, without even a care
In the world, they’ve been hurled,
The cares that we have,
We put them behind us,
Because the past is the past
The future is now
And we are the gifts that are within it
Two people alive,
Positivity emits,
A feeling that is like no ordinary other,
I think i’ve discovered
What it means to uncover,

My other half.
Gigi Tiji Oct 2015
salty banana brain game
seratonin sunshine soup
neurotransmitter broth
shimmer shimmer
a neuron takin a ****
Jeremy Ducane Aug 2015
Words should soar at break of day.
Impatient with the serotonin low, I
Break out coffee toast and sun.
How dare a... take a run
At this word...Neurotransmitter...
Stop me having fun?

Let there be brilliant light
For all.   Right here right now.  Always there
Above a cloud or two they say.
In fact I'll try another high jump word
To raise sky higher still,  the day -      
...5-hydroxytryptamine...

Hooray!
Gigi Tiji Nov 2015
can you take me to the last domain

\\

the last one
the one before
everything

\\

come tumbling down with me
flying skyward frown
upside inside out

\\

this amoebic mass of
intergalactic introspection and
analyses of outward perception

\\

this ion exchange
line dancing across an axon
don't shoot the neurotransmitter

\\

this realm is made entirely of thanks
when there is nothing to say

\\

it is my childhood that keeps me alive

\\

I'd like to immortalize my friends

\\

remember when we played in the sandbox?

\\

remember when my father stabbed you with a screwdriver.

\\

there was a time when all that mattered was music
there was a time when all that mattered was flesh
there was a time when all that mattered was eternal
there was a time when all that mattered was death

\\

scaled fish curling into reverse spiral
it floats there in haunting grimace

\\

the upholstered chairs by the fireplace
feet chewed by the jaws of a puppy

\\

the china cabinet in the corner
I could see the reflection of your
disgusting indulgences in it

screwdriver pink skin

\\

the musty mass of wires where your desk once was

where your life unfolded 'til the wee hours of the morning
sick and twisted absent minded distant soul

\\

that ball of electricity floating down from the sky
bobs as a ball in the surf toward the kitchen door

\\

terrifying electric forgiveness coming to engulf my brittle heart
Universe Poems Mar 2021
Breathe
Sea air,
revive,
and, relieve


© 2021 Carol Natasha Diviney
Gigi Tiji Oct 2015
destroyer of the void
I am glass shattered sun
scattered high beams

leaping from one black hole to another

I am finding nothing but the light within my soul bent into empty caves empty caves abyss forever
keep spitting

you're mine forever
chain link and snap

seratonin is an inhibitory neurotransmitter

happiness means
less neural activity

stop thinking, brain
stop it, please

but I will know joy from suffering
so I will know bliss from despair

**** me **** me I want to feel alive
train wreck train wreck

someone
pull me out of the
hole of *** the
hole of gender the
hole of identity

it is raining

my words drip along with the raindrops as the sides of this meatbucket crumple inward

plastics melting and
canvas fibres disconnected

i am frayed eye lash
eye lash pull scream and

eyes twisted in shapes unseen
body convulse and and convulse in
I'm confused why am I here

take me away from
this body
this now

losing my eyes would help everyone else
Debbie Lydon Dec 2019
A red thread of shame is tightly woven into our silenced souls,
An inherited madness dripped its way down to whoever works the controls,
This nebulous state, this numb state, it's our common default setting,
Here we all are, blind to the brain trick, content in our worldwide forgetting.

Nothing like a perpetually distracted brain to box away the brilliance,
Put that box back in the cupboard, don't you dare invite **** dissonance,
And remember when the party guests arrive, silence is insulting,
Privacy is suspicious, mystery is annoying and thoughts kept to yourself are revolting.

Show us romance, show us pretty, let us always see the screen,
Give us an abundance of fake new reality, let us turn on the simulation rain,
We would like to see her and we would like to see him while pretending we're the ones having fun,
Dopamine is leading the way for us all, our ruling neurotransmitter, our kindly king hormone.
Vernarth, after rescuing Valekiria, entered the Sacred Planetary Path, right here and later before 700,000 thousand souls who were lost in the Forest of Hylates, they were released from prison and they were given the offering of flowers in their hands agreed by a goblin on a Sycamore, going to the vicinity of Kourion, and then attached to the ship Eurydice, where the Auriferous Medallion was.
Hylates, was a worshiped god compared to Apollo, his name obeyed Apollo of the woods. Being a god of the forests, who were ritualized by their knowledge, they were condemned for harassing Vernarth. Much of this site of worship had immense monumental gardens, an atrium leading to the architecture of the Kourion and Paphos gate columns surrounding the grove sanctuary. Vernarth bathed in circular leaves in procession after Valekiria's chimera, after indulging him in the bath of golden holm oak flakes, which were shaped in dihedral cloisters of an invisible abbey. It was the appendix of an intuitive poetics molding the titanic epic fibers of Hylates and his spiritual nervousness that was extreme in the tectonic conditions of various continents on his sturdy anatolic layer; peroration of the afiolite rocks of the Troodos mountains, adorning itself on the oceanic mantle, as an idealistic geological process in the Hexagonal Birthright as a testimonial zone of Judah, which would be elongated from the earth's crust, here shortening and thickening by deformation and fracturing as a consequence of lateral tectonic forces. In this ****** over the Hylates Woods, the apparent calm of the island was seized, in earthquakes that Vernarth captured under the soles of his feet, taking him to the ocean bottom where the medallion guarded by the Christians rested. The concomitant range is a rigorous hodgepodge of cliffs and very heavy cliffs, incoherent and scattered that hung from the edges of Mesorea as a backdrop. The beauties he possessed were found in his hidden villages, nestled in hollows and valleys on the slopes, some rich with apple and vine trees, others higher up, covered with ferns and pines. The Troodos mountain range, once green abode of gods and goddesses, is now green with Vernarth Hetairoi.

Alikanto circles the foundations, dancing on them and their groves of sacred trees, procreating archaic altars in votive flagstones with their hooves, digging up terracotta and ceramic figurines with their hooves, riding below on a long street that goes from south to north leading to the Temple of Apollo Hylates, which was built in the Late Classic or Early Hellenistic period on the ruins of the Archaic temple, close to an arena where Alikanto cut off small roots of jubilant hemlock, trying to join the lacerated dance. Vernarth was still surrounding himself with his steed, in him he was overwhelmed by periphrasis by a sacred garden pilgrimage in alchemy of Hylates, that the priests who would carry from the treasure to the bottom of the sea, down the Eurydice with new codes of life.

While he could Vernarth brooded with the Mandragoras that were bellowing, dislocated by the black poplars and the willows that were linked to the winter solstice, and therefore with Pluto and Persephone who made solicitous incantations. But the nearby wells were burped, smearing the wooden and stone columns, causing structural damage, not being harmful determinants, only generating romantic and incorruptible their Christian apology.

Some decay falls in the temples, the reborn species collapse enslaved by the wealthy, unbalancing the mystique of Judah. Macedonian figuratives interviewed the epic narrative of past customs, based on familiarity and didactic Ionic customs. Vernarth illusively begins to decode the architectural relevance, to concentrate it on Patmos, fostering Ionic art, an ineffable inheritance after the arrangement of Etrestlés in the Koumeterium of Messolonghi, to the effect of the capitals that were preening again, since he generated it in the background sailor to approach the theologian. Vernarth as a builder and bricklayer retouches with his golden hands the public agoras, the pritaneion for the Hexagonal Progeny, in accordance with theaters of epic and religious scenic art, to render them to the funerary emissary. All this typology will be specified in all the circular planes, some called tholos, to be rectangular in Patmos with the prototype of the temple of Asclepios - epidaurus; God of Medicine, who will help him for his subsistence and final recovery of his epic chest. Here is the prosaic typewritten sphinx, which tends to bind him defenseless from his scattered objective time to the joys of building, badly shaping the inadequacies of fallen works, a product of his worn out neurotransmitters, a remnant of the most utilitarian and unencoded for greater time and investment of utility of limited period and space. They are felt in some surrounding areas, drums and major percussions, noticing how the changing of the guard of the Eurydice gold medallion took place.

They fall from the vital instruments of Asclepios, secreting certain neurotransmitter synthesis substances, giving Vernarth the peace of mind to stand inspired, as parallel to the exogenous architectural, to vindicate the architecture of his body shaped by lymphomas, receiving circular and rectangular axo shapes, traveling through the torrent of their innovation that wounds the iron of the fractality of their hoplite neuro architecture, having to redesign themselves before they travel to Rhodes, using the target stock target that stimulates their immune system. Upon being freed by this immediate precept, he communicates with the theologian Saint John to take note of the lines of architecture that will have definition once they are presented to Procoro on Patmos.

Says the Theologian: “the diffuse window that we have opened here in the forests of Hylates, characterize neuro-architectural communication, the destination of clairvoyance on other distant unofficial Eucharists. What ceiling supports the ubiquity of its origin, if the temples do not communicate with each other? Outside the dogmas and the interstitial space of the cells with agility they make the concessions demanded earlier, they are cells that carry missives between torrents of senses of nervous love, that neuro-build the bodies according to nature and the body that identifies the substance. We have already synthesized the phylogeny and that of its pre-classified chronogram in Gethsemane, now we will be teleported theologically through the ramifications of the Olive Tree Bern, towards the vesicles, which hope to be precursors of the body and soul of our progeny”

Etréstles joins the Ionian synapse channel, a precursor of sensuality and sensory politics that will end the ideological stores, releasing the parasitic cells that would drive the thick limestone and terracotta embankment that Alikanto had unearthed, of all the calcified particles that spread over the membranes of the Bern Olives, phosphorizing in the ranks of Christian gladiators, who emerged from the sea after the change of the medallion guard and their filamentous seats, unleashing the overrelief of the vices that fell from their moistened bodies, depolarizing and reacting with openings inhibitory to those who tried to observe them, as if hiding them from their past of slavery.

Leaving the Forest of Hylates, in the chronological sense of the classical orders of the Aegean, the sea currents moved like rafts towards the Cyclades, leaving the gale torrent of the Animoi and the Meltelmi, leaving the memories of the primogeniture graceful slender, like a great Canonical example burning in its stay like an acropolis, carrying the distant peculiarities of all molding, to touch a new one when passing through the winds massing on the boceles and enthais, anointing itself with occasional prismatic pieces, which made it seem the outstanding union of Trees with columns with stone roots base. The Ionic gaze of the forest of Hylates was modulated by channeling in the psalms of Saint John Theologian, like a filet of poetic urges increasing the size of their oval prayers, which intervened in the coral lights, engaging the sixth order of primogeniture, before of going for the medallion, causing the superimposed escape meditations of the Ghosts of Shiraz, who were still entrenched in their purposes, and of the rivalry with the Saltimbanqui, staggering through the submerged architrave, bathed by faint waves, transparent in the near the middle of some temples that could be seen submerged, a few meters submerged in the Kourion bay.

Heartless and devoid of new stereotypes, they passed by crossing the garlands of the Eurydice, which was already getting ready to install itself in the mask, Raeder and Petrobus perfectly recorded the images of the ship that floated on the string that held its bow together, pointing to the neat symmetry that met the expectations of being reunited with the precious gold medal, showered with new feats to those who redeemed it. Raeder was flying on Petrobus, but this time they plummeted to the bottom, where the massive gem slumbered, giving them praise for all who lined up like a great Miracle anchored in Limassol. They leave the Forest of Hylates, drenched in the golden sun, staining the sheds of the upper hatch that the Eurydice exhibited for them, with iridescent colors to take their captain.
HYLATES  FORESTS
CC Oct 2018
I fall a little too hard, in love
I want a bit too desperately, to win
I procrastinate too long, on games
I stay up too often, typin'
I wake up too late, savouring dreams
Is it my brain, making too much dopamine?
Or whatever neurotransmitter
Making me so bitter
That I reaaally need a dose of self control
Relatable?
Maddie May 2022
You are round, white,
and easy to break –
just like me.

Over-the-counter candy to cure
my sour serotonin syndrome.
You help my body become
a sweet, symmetrical poem.

You spell the words
Medication Management,
Adjustment,
and Patience
on the tip of every
neurotransmitter I own.

Oh Lexapro,
sweet placebo,
thank you for making me
dizzy with dopamine.
Thank you for changing my clock.
Now, I’m geared toward making it

To my next pill,
to my next refill,
to my next daffodil,
and my next windmill.

You are my daylight,
my daylight saving time.
Graff1980 Mar 2020
I am working on my obsession,
getting ready to maximize
the level of my videogame guys.

It’s an hourly endeavor
a corporate game that is
supremely clever,
for its frequent firings
of the dopamine
neurotransmitter.

So, unconsciously
I am driven to spend
hours on end
thinking about
or playing
and sometimes paying
for a game I don’t need
Zee Jan 2020
I'm lost inside my mind and this is all still happening
I can't see the path I wave, that traffic's always blinding me
But something lost in time still screams
Both on our knees, the bludgeoning
Maybe floods coming rising in
Like neurotransmitter kisses.
My wishes still far from death,
Contentment feels like a ***** with whisky breath
I'm pissy whipped and that ain't auto-correct
Go ahead, take a guess
But what you think is not relevant
Just evident
And written across your frame
And the silences we neglect.
Jenni Apr 2014
I’ve heard that people have done studies
That show that music is almost like a drug to the human mind
It effects the neurotransmitter dopamine
Which is what makes things addictive to us
Maybe this just makes me another addict looking for a fix
Maybe this isn’t as spiritual an experience as it seems
Personally I’d like to think it’s more than just a chemical reaction
Sometimes it’s nice to ignore the science
So it can feel like magic again
Because music is really the closest thing to magic
That I’ve ever experienced.

— The End —