So I have the entire capacity of my life to think upon and try to logic with everything that happens and all of the actions I take. Un-flawless and imaginarily sensible. To continue on resorting to the old and being scarce of the new. I can't seem to find the ground and am only resting on a broken chair. I have no brain but my eyes work. My blood is contaminated and there is no filter for the cure. Eating and drinking and fucking and wincing. Truth be told, I was never good, and never great. I can costume love and have no instinct on what it is. It lost me years ago, and now it's all one shared spectrum of color. The ones I care for don't exist. The ones that cared for me have flown south. It was too cold for them. Apology is just an action of false or unfelt words. There is nothing that can be done, that doesn't lack the motivation. It's easier to be easy. And easy to be complicated. Basically plain, you deserve the world and it's certainty something of which I refuse to give for circumstances I won't be able to understand. There is this word, vomit, that consistently comes over me, and then it's irreplaceable. Nothing was said that wasn't meant, but only a cloth over broken glass. The problem was never fixed and only guarded. It's this bitter sweet, more bitter, less sweet aroma that I smell. I am weak for the drug. And that is what it's become. Drink your milk baby, for your bones are much stronger than mine. I've been drinking passed the expiration date but I can't stop until it's finished. I have lost. You have loved. Absence, makes me fucked.
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It's just the thoughts and emotions that happen to spill out of my brain, I suppose it's poorly placed together in that sense. In any case, I'm glad that your heart comprehends.
(Very aware, but the flood of euphoria that follows is too much to do without, on occasion. I must confess though, if I could eat it like chiclets, you would be able to consider me more than a glutton. )
From that point of view, I must concur. Though I often shackle myself in a lack discipline, I have nearly just as often known things I can scarcely convey through a serial spew of words. This existence is a cryptic paradox of eternal sentience and biological obsolescence. Yet there is little point in lamentation. LIke you said, there is a particular and profound joy in being tethered within a body ...so capable of such fantastic sensations ...even some of the more agonizing ones, for they simply remind me I am still alive.
I cannot fathom how words can be poorly placed, if they serve both the reader and the writer ...i care not if they defy convention.
(glad to know you are wise of consequences ...gluttony can indeed swallow one whole)