trickle

Sometimes within the grand elusive machinery

I catch the glimpse of a gear and it
makes me want to cry

dry tears phantoms tears
in pretend nostalgia for illusions
I never had in the first place

But this negativity might be caused by the thick intricate mess
that is the back of my neck
said the doctor today
(the mysterious nature of the relationship between the body and the mind
truly is the scariest and prettiest thing)

Should I ever manage to find a way to unlock
the muscles and bones there
I would then let that whole body-part
unfold and unroll
until it gets
as long and smooth and contorted as a boa

the flow of softness and peacefulness
at last restored
in a symbiotic harmony.

But keys are nowhere in sight
and the tangles in my neck keep suffocating the joy, blocking its way

Only the ugliest emotions are fit to survive
in the most extreme conditions
viruses and bacteria
my thoughts
flooding in my head
drowning my brain.

Eating is one of the only easy things left to do
in this world of mine,
first-world problems girl.

I would write about actual situations
instead of talking in abstractions but I
have no sense of self-entitlement
not really

Let me talk about the real thing and I would fall to pieces
successfully excavating and removing
what little validity I allow to my emotions.

It wouldn’t be a depiction
so striking and pure like they come up with,
them word-players, magicians
but a pitiful and dissonant conglomerate of morphemes.

But why might I ask
why is one supposed to be at their artistic best
when in utmost despair?

Are people who make such claim
aware of how tiny the mind
of a depressed person comes to be?

As far away as might be from a place of beauty and transcendence
such a constricted place

In here,
the ugly stays ugly
the dreadful gets worse
the sadness mutates to apathy
all thoughts are like grey sand
intensity of any kind of feeling
gets tone down until it feels like the gauntest routine.

But perhaps...?
Perhaps such a motionless environment
is where a delicate fragile thing slowly gets to grow?
A rare bred of flower solely born amid rotten corpses – memories and dreams
- a discreet breath carefully, slowly, silently exhaled
(one is cautious not to let it get caught in their throat)

and that thing is
the purest and most precious yearning:
 

A yearning for Out

The smallest trickle - instead of the stream of gasoline
that usually keeps you going
as an incentive to live on -
now run through you but
that trickle is
quintessential.

And that is what they meant,
that such singular substance was always
the most and maybe the sole
appropriate driving force for creation

and God I really hope
that is not what they meant
and if it was
then I wish with all my might
they were the snobbish kind and misled.