Sunday, May 22, 2016

saints of apotheosis example.

in one suggestion- persuasion, seduction- i lose innocence
without ever knowing its intimacy to begin with.
i was taught
to look elsewhere. what i want is more.
more is what cannot be had. do you know

what is over? (o, lord, my sky rejecting itself
is what is over- allow this to be a foretelling

of a new day
in a world allowing strictly the conscious, it is enough

that i have a chance
at being of the future.

the parallel-undisguised is forever. if i lose my shit, i mean it,
and that means

in an impermanent multiverse, in which
i was suggested to want more. how special i felt- so special, i must
keep up with my admirations
which all seem to resemble one another
and that which i do not care for.

people of sensibilities kill time- a sensible act. people everywhere. people.

taboo: my lunch is my tumors again. they regenerate at exceptionally noticeable speed. this is the day that all fondnesses for logic have been dismissed as waste as logic begins to erode into an extinction. parasites remain, as does our breath held in for virtues; therein, denials also remain- incidental virtue. and i have no idea that i've forgotten how to breathe in my personal devastation. my grief rolls down to me, my feet too stiffened to run from such force. my outrage warns me it, too, has force. it is going to roll down from me and back at me again. my feet, again, remain too stiffened to move at all from or with force.
i have cancer like
everybody i know. cancer
comes from unresolved
emotions suctioned into
a quarantine, during which
solutions are not
this holocaust is mine. i was designed
to believe in my involvement, to be
then branded, and ultimately
into death.
schizophrenia is the branding put on those who see and feel what others are incapable of seeing and feeling. those who are capable of seeing and feeling what others aren't are often attacked by that which they see and feel. such heightened, genius sensory sensitivity is often feared by others- this is felt with fear, in return, by those branded as schizophrenic. i want it to be acknowledged that these people are the medicine people whose abilities we need to foster to save not only our nation, but our world. i believe it is needed to encourage these abilities in others in order to heal their sense of selves and our sense of selves.
schizophrenia itself is truly a pool of paradoxical, oxymoronic contradictions we use to hide our insecurities in- our grievances, our outrages. we do this so that we remain unknown, unseen, and unseeing. change scares us.

the medicine people branded as schizophrenic are held captive in quarantine, often untaming of their senses of reality.

i know this quarantine has something to do with all of us denying that our identities are our protections we choose to use against one another, to think with. nobody remembers they love one another anymore.
this one vestige- self-assigned quarantine- is an appearance strung along justice of which justice i find unconvincing.
we are stranded among one another, ignoring each other. we are stranded even when making sense of it.
rebellion is picked apart, never to be rearranged, because our gravity condemns us to be trapped in perception of choicelessness- though we, in fact, choose all we extend ourselves toward and away from. our actions, feelings, and thoughts define our senses of selves, and nothing more. there is no base personality, only confrontings of the possibilities of such.

i am my action now.

eat, eat body, eat, eat.
eat, eat, stoically, body, be eaten.
sugar, after.
sugar after sugar, sugar- spoonful of sugar
inhibits medicine, overcomes
medicine. i feel saddened upon
possession; choke

me, choke on me, mother; choke
the mother of me- where, sugar, is
sugar, sugar; how do i know if
the lights are on or
not? how do i know

if i am
on fire? i am at a loss.

you know, i'm going to die one day, and i'm curious as to
whether it hurts or not
before i die- promise
i sing in front of others, at long last? i sing

and i want this promise to
especially hurt. i reach from the depth
of the well of an abandoned house- this is

me in the suburb. promise
we need no longer to speak
of being victims
victims...? how do we get out of our locked rooms?
how do we make choices radically
differently than those we've made
thus far?
promise you stop promising?
promise you stop apologizing?
"who is it containing us?"- walls speak,
facing inwardly.