• illicit_skunk 48w

    kiss my tungsten ore

    The friends you made online
    were thrown into the trash can
    on account of showing effects of prolonged trauma.
    One of them had cabinets
    full of laboratory glassware
    which were used to store aromatic bitter barks
    of trees that grow due to the
    stiffness of air in a room.
    And all her love
    for the one that used to get on her nerves
    was found stored in a wooden caddy;
    because it was all that there ever was.

    They plucked her frenulum with a plectrum
    and enclosed her speech in the third bracket-
    this is what they do on discovering
    your extensive use of words
    on forgotten cases of melancholia.

    But you cannot let the hopelessness get to you.
    Do you want to be thrown into the trashcan too?
    Gift a parchment made out of your own skin
    as a memorabilia;
    and a bunch of flowers
    to the nexus of online writers
    that build communities
    and then anti-communal armies
    in hopes of setting the world in a course
    contrary to it's present one.
    The insatiable need to classify
    and to be classified;
    to be put into categorical boxes
    only to break free out of them;
    creates a downward spiral of paradoxes
    that appear to be marching upwards
    where the rumours to a dead end reside.

    You can only hope
    you were the upper shell of a crustacean.
    You can only hope
    because you cannot let the hopelessness get to you.
    You are who you are because you were sick
    of the communal farce
    and the guide to getting smacked in the head
    and being pulled back to your origin
    is written on labels stuck on the bottles
    storing hallucinogenic alkaloids.
    However, in order to avoid being thrown into the trash can,
    you need to strike a balance
    between the destruction of
    dopamine secreting par compacta part
    of your basal nucleus
    and letting people kiss a tungsten ore
    while calling it your ass.