This is a general display of emotion, a play on human nature, and for all intents and purposes a love poem best directed to the one who has wondered what it’s like inside my head, which I’ll reveal is just a marathon of rerun shows, and half written prose piled Ofcourse on top of unmentionable thoughts and sequences you might liken to a late night HBO special with just enough story to make me out to be the hero,
but once you get past that there’s all these insecurities coiled around the inner workings of my mind that keep me in a comfortable repression, it’s a depression of my own design, a tenuous balance between want and risk where love or rejection threaten routine to the point that I’m stuck in the scenes of my past dissecting mistakes down to the last like a pychological archeologist hell bent on destroying himself in the process of answering the question “what if?”
Now add some broken heart, and a little history of tragedy into the mix and you’ve got a recipe for anxiety the likes of which would be best treated with prescription Xanax and a blow up sex doll dressed like my ex- is it possible to get any less sleep with this much stress?
Don’t even get me started on my libido, a constant companion to my mental droll,
It’s out of control, my sex drive is more like a sex road trip, except my cars been flipped, and my relationship status is 1080 p, because high definition makes me feel less lonely, but only until I get the monthly fee, my bank account is slowly becoming as low as my self esteem.
If you think you have a problem bottling up your feelings, let me tell you, the company of my subconscious has turned into a legitimate business operation with feeling bottling factories so big we’ve had to outsource the suppression and awkwardness to things like body language and eye contact, we’ve even managed the byproduct in the form of excessive sweat, no need for smoke stacks, is my face red yet?
I have to excuse myself from my mind some times, and find solace in the simplicity of my heart. This is a love poem after all, and when I’m with you while my mind is bursting at the seams analyzing every possible action and reaction beyond the realm of plausibility, while simultaneously trying to imagine what is going on in your mind, my heart beats with certainty, so if you can’t handle what my mind is thinking, I’ll write about why my heart’s still beating.
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I can absolutely get used to your spoken word. Sheer brilliance, and clearly a depression of personal design doesn’t make cupid’s demons any less real or frightening. This is raw art. I applaud you, poet!