How brittle our minds have come to corrode, Consuming from this world.
How riveting it is to know that I, Despite how ever boxy and hollow, exist. Or so I think I do?
I used to struggle not to write, A piece without an ode, All my work, a melody, Written words that flowed,
"Sort of like dithering among the millions of tasks, Amid a vacant space in my mind."
"lowering your dignity when realistically you should be frightened of the little time you have and how you slaughter it with this pathetic lie."
"The great reality of rotting away isn't that of favorable."
"Queries of existence, wonders of the past"