Week 11 championship: 1. zygote (8-2) vs. 2. Zombie (3-0) \\ Zombie wins 4-3

Zombie · 05-10-2014, 02:13 AM

A SCHIZOPHRENIC MELTDOWN: THE EXISTENTIALIST ENTRIES OF A PSYCHOSOMATIC, MENTALLY RAMBUNCTIOUS FORM OF A HUMAN BEING.

dear, everyone, who exists in my life! (and in my head)

the nature of our former baron, is different from our current host
nurture <vs> dormant balance. an insipid coward; abhorrent ghost
what most of us don't know, is that we only exist internally
by internal means, I suppose infernally. eternally as deterrent/joke
a quarrel heaves, abnormally. the chorus sings enormous sync
moral hinged environments, devoted to diurnal things
inside my journal, proprietary victims from withdrawal drip....
liquid paint to distinguish faces, in a vivid states' dementia
an overlay of makeup, with an exaggerated shade in question
lavender stains deface the pigment. spread to debase thee gray aesthetics
acrylic patches each vague submission. grease claims the three-faced cosmetic
robotic arms connect to machines, to interpret delusions
a symbolic conclusion, SO obscene its determined confusing
each occurrence unproven with a myopic swarm of cold morphine
an exploding eye with a serpents arm, a self portraits diluted
an emulsifying illusion. i even had cupid guide me on through it
individual's perception. insanity as an enforcer
distorted reality in the disorder. an unequivocal dimension
i see things that aren't there...& if things are there and I notice
do I choose to ignore them, or simply can't afford to control it
symptom of psychosis? or under a hypnosis that I can't snap out of
sometimes I black out.

dear someone (I just woke up from blacking out)

hey, someone, let me tell you a story.
Lt. Colonel was my favorite. he didn't feel like a ghost, see?
three golden stars, embedded in his coat seams.
the navy's very own: Annie Oakley
he made me feel, evoked. and spoke of me as if he were my coach
my mentor speaks, & my mental themes feeling encroached. aesthetically
feel like acoustics play every-time I step into a room thats on fire
i've been ruled a survivor, with an acute sense. yet too suicidal.
lubed conjunctiva. strait-jacket's discolored by drooling saliva
coast is clear. detectors; of euphoric beams connected, to
my dome. where intravenous nectar was being flowed between
this temple, to control my breathing & temporal vectors
psychosomatic measure, where hopelessness & my aura seems to melt
opening of orifice is a scenic svelte. by anticlimactic neural pressure
this is where endorphins scream for help.
knock-knock jokes to my dopamine receptors
"knock knock"
-"who's there?"
"dopamine"
-"dopamine, who"
"you're a dope I mean! Who can never get what lifes supposed to mean."
endorsements by a gentlemen, where he talks as if he thinks he knows me
told by a Old Marine General that Lt. Colonels don't wear stars but, Silver Oak Leaf's

Dear anyone at all

each segment alive, I forget who I am, I forget on my likeness
I forget I'm a person, I forget that I'm timeless.
If Lt. Colonel wasn't real, does that make our duet all a lie?
I feel tormented. And violent. I regret that I'm like this
a desert a crisis, a venom, a virus.
Am I even real? Is there even a heaven, a highness?
the venture of blind men, that attempt to go spineless
i'm inception, a rhythm of lines, a measure in metrics presented in time
an iridescent surprise that plays a role in a vengeful surmise
a minuscule peasant. I dont even exist. Nor alive
a totem to wake you up. an ineffectual likeness
this is now a speck full of whiteness, on the inflections of light in your iris
a descent of the righteous, or conceptual physics through a concept of psychics
I'm nothing, I'm no one. I'm nothing that has never existed. Forever. It's pious
and I sit with a luger aimed, to the brain, dosage of psilocybin
who can say, to the truth explained, that they've ever before seen anything like it?

sincerely, No one

05-10-2014, 02:13 AM	#1
Zombie Senior Member Join Date: Apr 2013 Posts: 125 Battle Record: 5-0 Champed - Art of Writing League Rep Power: 2645340	A SCHIZOPHRENIC MELTDOWN: THE EXISTENTIALIST ENTRIES OF A PSYCHOSOMATIC, MENTALLY RAMBUNCTIOUS FORM OF A HUMAN BEING. dear, everyone, who exists in my life! (and in my head) the nature of our former baron, is different from our current host nurture <vs> dormant balance. an insipid coward; abhorrent ghost what most of us don't know, is that we only exist internally by internal means, I suppose infernally. eternally as deterrent/joke a quarrel heaves, abnormally. the chorus sings enormous sync moral hinged environments, devoted to diurnal things inside my journal, proprietary victims from withdrawal drip.... liquid paint to distinguish faces, in a vivid states' dementia an overlay of makeup, with an exaggerated shade in question lavender stains deface the pigment. spread to debase thee gray aesthetics acrylic patches each vague submission. grease claims the three-faced cosmetic robotic arms connect to machines, to interpret delusions a symbolic conclusion, SO obscene its determined confusing each occurrence unproven with a myopic swarm of cold morphine an exploding eye with a serpents arm, a self portraits diluted an emulsifying illusion. i even had cupid guide me on through it individual's perception. insanity as an enforcer distorted reality in the disorder. an unequivocal dimension i see things that aren't there...& if things are there and I notice do I choose to ignore them, or simply can't afford to control it symptom of psychosis? or under a hypnosis that I can't snap out of sometimes I black out. dear someone (I just woke up from blacking out) hey, someone, let me tell you a story. Lt. Colonel was my favorite. he didn't feel like a ghost, see? three golden stars, embedded in his coat seams. the navy's very own: Annie Oakley he made me feel, evoked. and spoke of me as if he were my coach my mentor speaks, & my mental themes feeling encroached. aesthetically feel like acoustics play every-time I step into a room thats on fire i've been ruled a survivor, with an acute sense. yet too suicidal. lubed conjunctiva. strait-jacket's discolored by drooling saliva coast is clear. detectors; of euphoric beams connected, to my dome. where intravenous nectar was being flowed between this temple, to control my breathing & temporal vectors psychosomatic measure, where hopelessness & my aura seems to melt opening of orifice is a scenic svelte. by anticlimactic neural pressure this is where endorphins scream for help. knock-knock jokes to my dopamine receptors "knock knock" -"who's there?" "dopamine" -"dopamine, who" "you're a dope I mean! Who can never get what lifes supposed to mean." endorsements by a gentlemen, where he talks as if he thinks he knows me told by a Old Marine General that Lt. Colonels don't wear stars but, Silver Oak Leaf's Dear anyone at all each segment alive, I forget who I am, I forget on my likeness I forget I'm a person, I forget that I'm timeless. If Lt. Colonel wasn't real, does that make our duet all a lie? I feel tormented. And violent. I regret that I'm like this a desert a crisis, a venom, a virus. Am I even real? Is there even a heaven, a highness? the venture of blind men, that attempt to go spineless i'm inception, a rhythm of lines, a measure in metrics presented in time an iridescent surprise that plays a role in a vengeful surmise a minuscule peasant. I dont even exist. Nor alive a totem to wake you up. an ineffectual likeness this is now a speck full of whiteness, on the inflections of light in your iris a descent of the righteous, or conceptual physics through a concept of psychics I'm nothing, I'm no one. I'm nothing that has never existed. Forever. It's pious and I sit with a luger aimed, to the brain, dosage of psilocybin who can say, to the truth explained, that they've ever before seen anything like it? sincerely, No one Last edited by Zombie; 05-10-2014 at 02:16 AM.