Alphabet poem.

Amen, amen, as I shout from the walls of an ever-changing brain lining, and I shout it with the innermost disbelief. By the way, I see it; I only have three years to find out what’s right about me, and what has yet to be corrected. Chamomile lotion coaxes my arms into relaxation when I cry out loud to whatever is in the sky, or sitting on the ground. Dare I say that I felt the weight of everything upon my soul, yet when I looked inside, I only found the burden of a system of thoughts. Effigies broke off from the sides of my inner turmoil and attempted to run, however their feet were adorned with oil, and my soul decorated with fire. Furthermore, the idea of the spiritual feels as though it can’t be embodied, but I can feel the staircase leading to it. Granted it steps away from me with each step I gain, sending me up two and back three… Homely styles of fighting minds is the was for you to understand that people could not be so easily swayed by force, but only by constant ingemination and fervent conviction could you know… If only I had the ability to play the unknown; to control lives would be the ultimate for my self-esteem, and would in turn, give me the strength to control my own. Just as I feel as I’m getting somewhere, the means of getting there breaks my legs, and each time something burns, each time I doubt a little more. Killed though, because I don’t want to die without knowing that thing… that thing that so lovingly isn’t here… but that thing I revere and fear and love so deeply that I’d have the most trouble terminating myself. Logistics are too much on the soul. Modes and means are the mechanics of the heart, a contradiction in itself. Nothing is the same, now that it is November, she said. Opposite day is the day I actually find out who I am, and so I’m excited for it, though it may bring the end of the world. Potluck dinners were never my facet, and whole body determination was never my strong suit. Questioning authority is what I long to do, however the brain is set in such a way that to question authority is to question my core. Remember it doesn’t work. Stuck now in this void of devoid and null thoughts and feelings, inching my way through syntax and tone and hiding my blemishes in the spaces of these words… Trotsky type execution is what I feel is next for the world, and it shall be done under my hand. Universal love and death are interchangeable. Veneration lacks the soul, but guess what? everything’s a construct of the human mind, and from there spawns our Matrix, our never ending low consciousness minefield that constantly blows the head off of its constituents. Women are men, the Bible says so. Xylophone. You. Zap.