01-05-2018, 12:05 AM | #1 |
rhyme capsule.
Join Date: Sep 2018
Posts: 2,146
Rep Power: 0 |
happiness in intelligent people is the rarest thing i know
write sober, edit drunk;
yet why even distinguish between the two states of mind when they combine? purported sobriety is merely intoxication with the oscillating false paradigm of reality thus if three addicts see each other simultaneously in the eye is it pineal? it's real if you know yourself; such is the law of solipsism but knowing what it isn't is not mutually exclusive to knowing what is, true. i've got issues you can't picture, trust. find scar tissue that i wish to cut. in the windiest gust my sword-arm stiffens up and i can't piss enough. i'm lit. i'm love. i'm it, i'm drugs; salvador's matador pushing the crimson lips apart for art imitates life limitates heart in the indifferent quasar of your strained insistent existence. talk. i'll fain to listen. feign fibbing angel inveigle whispers but mere mellifluous honeyed words coaxing your coquettish tongue to twist 'til it's lost its flavour spun around your cerebrum waiting for occam's razor to undo the occult favour. but you give yourself. you do. every spent soul imbued with self-loathing, sense soaked in dew from the previous evening's aqueous breathing. i’m actually leaving: in your hands, take my whole life, blow thrice for luck and throw dice – i’m fucked... but i’m alright. just tryna find a raison d’etre, or reason to better… myself or simply reason! unfetter the chains of thought and ease all the pressure obsessed with constancy in transient, seasonal weather. the air’s winter, my hair’s thinner, stare mirrors out as crisp breath blasts obscure intent glass. yet i’ve a cold dram of oban – word to an old man’s brandy rubbing gums on another son he wouldn’t love but his old hands did marry. writing’s cathartic as cliche as night is to darkness. my life’s in a harness: wife’s trying to harvest a slice of what’s most ripe in my garden but ardently i can’t let crackling carnal energy discharge anywhere else when my eyes start to target thus the primacy of lust must exhibit sovereignty over my armoury’s lot - would i rather be unarmed? probably not. honestly? i’m not honest. i’m not. refuse to acknowledge a sneeze if my sinuses popped. deceive myself with half-truths that i’ve tied into knots weaving a cryptic triptych till the tripartite decides the time is to rot. the only chime of the clock to adhere to is your own defining tick-tock, here… right in this spot, yea - and i’m bundling all mine into five-minute slots. but i ain’t tryna sign right on the dot with the same pen that wrote these letters. i am the ebb and the flow together, the cleft and the whole letting the world know that you are a part of all that you have met, all that you are yet to see. just let it breathe. |
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