EmperorOfIceCream
Senior member
can't sleep
my mind is working
overtime worrying about
little things like regrets about
how spring is passing and I sit
in melancholy too often -- my fire is
so dim its like the last flickering light
of a candle at a church where everyone
is going to become atheist, and God won't
matter anymore than the wax on the floor
that dripped and dripped throughout my life
and left me here -- empty, fuel-less, caring-less
loving-less, just apathetically trying to sleep even
though I can't, won't do what it takes to transform
my mind, to find a match, or oxygen, or ask around
and try to understand what the hell it is thats going on
in hell, where fires burn so hot and warm, where motivation
certainly must be the scorn of all those who are left out of the
fire, and can't stand their regrets, but don't feel any ire, because
all they've ever done is love themselves, and give themselves all
they ever needed -- and when they searched for truth outside their
selves they found an empty vacuum, like the nef of a church of atheists
worshipping nothing, but striving for internal goals created by external force
of wind and rocks banging back and forth, action-reaction of society, like they
said in physics class, not sociology -- the place where people try to understand how
things work but will never have an answer for the why of why we try and try and feel
and hope and apathetically melt into nothing, and flicker into nothing, and exist as nothing
even when our spindly fingers stretch across the skin of others, or sink into the dirt and plant
seeds that bloom flowers red and orange, or press against rough bark as we ascend above the
forest like a plane shooting through the clouds and seeing all around a new landscape of white hills
like elephants peircing your mind, your spindly fingers peircing them, back and forth back and forth--
mountains grow through time, spewing earth, internal rhyme, combustion builds inside our globe, and
my stomach twists and warmth grows through my liver, lungs, head, heart, and neck and throat and
flow through this moment of rememberance where every grace expressed in twinkling eyes reflect
explosions of red erosion blooming against the molten sky as I climb higher through the clouds, the
forest burns and hell is a fountain, and the rough bark of yesterday joins the solace of youthful play
in clouds so gray they yearn to droop into flames and scatter across hills -- but spring is passing and
wax is melting, and my eyes are drooping, and my heart is quenched by vision created through
internal machinations no better than external exclamations professed by professional thinkers
my mind is working
overtime worrying about
little things like regrets about
how spring is passing and I sit
in melancholy too often -- my fire is
so dim its like the last flickering light
of a candle at a church where everyone
is going to become atheist, and God won't
matter anymore than the wax on the floor
that dripped and dripped throughout my life
and left me here -- empty, fuel-less, caring-less
loving-less, just apathetically trying to sleep even
though I can't, won't do what it takes to transform
my mind, to find a match, or oxygen, or ask around
and try to understand what the hell it is thats going on
in hell, where fires burn so hot and warm, where motivation
certainly must be the scorn of all those who are left out of the
fire, and can't stand their regrets, but don't feel any ire, because
all they've ever done is love themselves, and give themselves all
they ever needed -- and when they searched for truth outside their
selves they found an empty vacuum, like the nef of a church of atheists
worshipping nothing, but striving for internal goals created by external force
of wind and rocks banging back and forth, action-reaction of society, like they
said in physics class, not sociology -- the place where people try to understand how
things work but will never have an answer for the why of why we try and try and feel
and hope and apathetically melt into nothing, and flicker into nothing, and exist as nothing
even when our spindly fingers stretch across the skin of others, or sink into the dirt and plant
seeds that bloom flowers red and orange, or press against rough bark as we ascend above the
forest like a plane shooting through the clouds and seeing all around a new landscape of white hills
like elephants peircing your mind, your spindly fingers peircing them, back and forth back and forth--
mountains grow through time, spewing earth, internal rhyme, combustion builds inside our globe, and
my stomach twists and warmth grows through my liver, lungs, head, heart, and neck and throat and
flow through this moment of rememberance where every grace expressed in twinkling eyes reflect
explosions of red erosion blooming against the molten sky as I climb higher through the clouds, the
forest burns and hell is a fountain, and the rough bark of yesterday joins the solace of youthful play
in clouds so gray they yearn to droop into flames and scatter across hills -- but spring is passing and
wax is melting, and my eyes are drooping, and my heart is quenched by vision created through
internal machinations no better than external exclamations professed by professional thinkers
