#poetpost

my body has been ripped apart by the journey.

my hands, tattered and thin.

my arms, a ghost of aspect; divorced from will.

my legs, tightened past sheering.

my neck, overwhelmed and closed.

my head, filled with fires and synaptic catastrophe.

my soul has been stolen by the grand work.

feel how it lacks. feel how it dissipates.

can you feel it?

millions of particles, crying for the end.

a perpetual moment machine finally showing signs of stopping.

I mean, I'm not *not* sad, but maybe it's just the normal amount today?

Anyway, yeah, I post less when I'm feeling less bad. Perhaps I should try to record some less-than-terrible thoughts as well.

Ah, realization - I think the reason is when I'm feeling okayish, I can be around other humans and be okayish. People mind being around me less when I'm not a gigantic mess.

i believe it nestles itself between your organs like fat and muscle

Love cannot be stored in the heart. the heart cannot store. only move

if love must sit within an organ, it surely sits in the lungues.