Whenever the thought crosses of this faceless humanity

And their poor excuses of this forgotten morality,

Hate exhumes what emotions left residing in me,

Love is dead and gone, hatred is the truth in me.

-

These creatures in the abyss, the depths of me,

Are the breaking point inside my reality,

I will never escape abandonment and purity,

We are to remain, solipsistically.

-

Each and every day, we walk mindless in the void again,

Questioning our own beliefs and trepidation,

We wonder why the endeavors never arrive in the end,

All the while, we do everything we can to break them.

-

We are the reason we will never achieve perfection,

We are nothing, worthless and in need of correction.

Have you ever felt your body is a cage?
And that the world is your prison?
That from the rising of your age
Your life's value has not once risen?
Fighting thought, resisting existing's cage
And ascertain your ambitions becomes moral outrage
So to keep yourself safe you keep your words from the page
And declare yourself nothing, so as to act nothing on the stage
If this is true for you, then I pity thee
Much as I solipsistically feel pity for me
buti mean this not condescendingly
I mean it sympathetically, perhaps more empathetically
For I too have felt the same, all the time somehow
But shift from it, with tenacity, and free yourself now.

pickling cucumbers after 12am...
and then...
somehow...
eerie flesh: of thee...
my counter pronoun neutral:
this you think...
this you you you...
           not i...
                     toying with
a mirror...
and this alienation of a tongue...
it's not like it lends itself
to the elevation:
with or without the confines
of thought...
it's so clearly reflexive and
never attired to reflection...
it can become a dagger
protruding from the cave
of a mouth...
but also become this fatty...
oyster curl teasing the uvula...
teasing it with a cushion
and a wonder for insomnia and
a pea...
each return to the mirror i find myself
armed with a body...
but somehow missing a soul:
therefore a psychopath...
a pathology of: soul ownership...
it would be so much
simpler to be an atheist these days...
a god riddled away for
the sake of argument...
but a soul?
the sigma-collection of:
how synchronised the heart
to kidney and liver is...
then this brain...
this swiss cheddar of pops
out Isaiah Sinjit Köhln...
a dentist... irritating teeth...
one might hope for:
a more irritating tongue...
i want to... finally"
scratch itchy bones...
i know this is a near impossible
project... but...
one's daydreams...

this tongue though...
it amazes me... like watching
a 1987 G.I. Joe film...
it hides the uvula..
timid like an oyster flesh
in the back of my...
a skull that's an oyster shell...
then it's so quick!
protruding beyond
the cares for a showcase of
teeth: when... smiling...
how it can take form of
showcasing fattening...
then appear lean and learned at
the same time!

without the inorganic treatment
suggest of by phonetic encoding...
not these letters...
this... flesh this irksome boot...
my tongue without oratory side-stepping...
this pursue pristine
events...

        this antithesis of work
with... loitering...
it's most certainly not... perfecting a craft...
but a patience...
of interaction...
   it's a slow-pacing of "work"...
it is... work...
but it's not a clarity of:
arbeit macht frei...

the tongue one blink a spear...
the next aa reclusive oyster
bulging of imitation fatso...
  loss of the uvula...
tomorrow's god and pardons...

tongue of tomorrow...
when the moon is still a scythe...
and the night is upon: you, i, we...
"they"...
i know... partly towing shadow...
night upon the earth and...
half day half night
come the suggested "crease"
of excavating dreams
from that first and lost
and only remaining: reign
of                         dipping upon
the surface of: nuanced... new...
therefore necessarily to be:
explored...

i wish i could... dress my body in
a ****** of latex
and pray to the "altar"
having enough shadow
and cosmopolitan gusto to
prey on *** fetishes...
i wish that: but then...
it's oh so boring when you're
a man...
it could become so thrilling
to be a woman having made
exodus with beta bux males
of the missionary, ahem... "yoga"...
stretch armstrong... blah blaah...

it's boring not to be this sedated
tao billionth citizen of
beijing... sometimes...
actually: most of the times...
i like... walking...
i much prefer walking
to running...
and i just invested in a pair
of trainers which... implies:
i will not desire to cycle anywhere...

i like the sound of rain:
when walking under a canopy of oaks...
i like the rubric of time when
it's: non-competitive...
when it's... slow...

         i like the idea
but never the time concerned with:
how mountain ranges became
the antithesis of deserts...
i like desserts to be more oily than
they are sweet...
i like desserts to be more fat invoking
than... i am still a teen precursor...
i like walking in the rain
without an umbrella...

i like being admired by children when
i do so...
i don't want to be understood
by animals...
only this afternoon
a herd of beef: because: why call
them anything but...
and this one colt was staging
a eyeing-contest with me...
i perhaps suggest
the alienating revelation
of a tongue, oyster... sparring cyclone...

i don't want to understand how
animals might find be fascinating...
or that children might...
it's beside presenting myself as freakish:
the dust has settled...
i'm just not plain-sight grey...
i can see instance of being
made into a conjunction of: memorable...
perhaps i delude myself...
but i don't think children
or animals have acquired that
sort of: expanded on the topic
of verbiage as corset might
give: riddle...

                 that i am 34 and aging...
sure...
but that i still freeze before the mirror
when i do something with
my body that i would never
when given enough social-stressors
of formality...
this tongue "detail"...
to flick it from out of a mouth...
when it had to be...
disguised in "comfort"
detailing a hiding of the uvula...

that's one...
a complete ****** palette balance should
i not be facing a mirror
solipsistically...
                    just like i can't imagine myself
extending a hope in genes:
a future a breeding...
dodo as i am...
            mammoth as: giggle...
i don't have these primo-darwinistic hopes...
i die i die: the "grey" of the sea
and time will have its way...

it's not like i can pass
intellect without having to vacate
an antithesis of clone with: the unique
randomness of the clone's awaited lineage
of new, nuanced... experience...

ergo! what's new?!
same old, same old...
                  the young are too eager
to die... the old are too tired of dying;
it's the in between that's
too sinister to harness a maxim for
and expect a much desired:
whiff of... authentic exasperation!

tomorrow my toils!
today... my inhibition of...
glossed over...          bitterness grey...
tomorrow my toils...
today... all those best
assurances kept... limbo fractures...
my:

         saw a kite... and allowed
myself to deserve... imitation:
                  kestrel flight!

rhyme how i abhor rhyme!
what miracles it might do to the antithesis
of the narrative / novel...
but it's all so all oh so ******* cliche!
leech-esque...
it clings to one's...