Six

To this dysfunction I've grown accustomed. In my soul I operate according to what flows out, not what simply functions. The misinformed source reports what he wants to hear but ignores what he fears. He gladly pours bleach in his process and when done, uses the dryer to blend up his concepts. Thought is the only way to true independence, but when we reference what has helped us it's merely an afterthought, like a 600-page book with a footnote for an appendix. We crack rocks and push keys to unlock the things unattainable in our conscious. Because sometimes we aren't even aware of the things that take us over, our learning is constant The letters we write sometimes written to indeterminable addresses, and as soon as we develop some instability, we just as soon develop inferiority complexes. We fish without bait and think we will catch up to ourselves, as if we are the masters of our own bait. Somehow even if we're always changing there's no escaping our own fate or rationalizing irrational faith. The most valuable thing to commit to is our minds cause even if we resent ourselves, it's better than being out of touch, into my emotions I'll deeply delve It's not a fast process. Sometimes it feels like an interpersonal contest. And while a God I've never prayed to, that doesn't mean I've never sat in a dark room with my sins and confessed. The pros of progress outweigh the cons of congress, but substance substantially justifies the things, little do we know, with which we've been secretly blessed. Sometimes I feel like talk is cheap but what produces it is worthy. And while life is an everlasting process, I'll have learned everything I wanna learn by thirty Is suicide an option? Better question, is the sky blue? The mournful tone in my voice is telling but continue believing it's just a simple case of the flu. Lyrics to go, inner reflection delivered to the pad, spilled out like blood from ovaries. Like I said, talk is cheap but if I can help a lost soul I'd gladly sell my shoes and walk up these stories for free. My message pure like a catholic virgin, But my articulation corrupt, as you can tell there is much contradiction within my diction When to stop I don't know, all I see is green lights. Halted by my guilty conscience and of course, the stage fright. This poem overly wordy, I overdosed as if I placed lines in it and entitled it 'coked up dictionary'. But it doesn't feel worth shipping even though the tears running down my cheek make my green eyes wary. Page four of the sequel to a dream. I wrote this on the spot but I've had it in my chamber since 16 I'll leave this poem with roses and $28 on my will. And if anyone asks my motive I'll say my articulation alive but the inside of me killed. Pouring the fungus inside my soul into a compound, don't even care if this rhymes but if so, I must be naturally profound. Stuck inside a memory's presence isn't a present if you can't fast forward to the present. But being stuck there to deal with your karma can turn out to be a blessing This goes out to all the souls who ooze passion but can't help but droop their eyes to their feet. And who feel like they've won themselves over but easily admit to unnecessary defeats. They're not alone within the coldness of their own isolation, they just have yet to warm up to the scars left by traumatic abrasions. The fifth page of this un-PO'ed letter. The mood if it cold, if it was a month it'd be December But if the season represented me it'd be borderline, and even if I've spilled everything inside me in this letter, I can't say arresting my progress would be something of a crime. For I'll do that myself and bear that burden alone, and even if I'm comfortable that doesn't mean I'm at home. That line made me tear up even if I'm ripped apart, I'm painting a picture of the masterpiece that lies deep within the puzzle of my heart. I'm confused but more so I'm used and abused, I keep my circle tight but I don't wear any belts around my passion, I wear that pant pretty loose The final words of a tearful address, I boast this but following sit back and revert to a flat chest. Some people say I'm dark, I say I'm honest. And even if I'm real about my problems, I'd rather be miserable than dishonest. Felt that in my soul as it tingled down to my spine, I snorted it into my mind and projectiled it into numbness like a fiend does a line