Emaciation Proclamation

I
am
a red
balloon
and I
float
all
d
a
y.
w
a
i
t
i
n
g

for
my
prince
to
come.

i am tied by the base strings
&
i have seen bad weather
at its worst.
i have seen the
hails snows rains bolts cracks
whips and sneers.
&
;
its been mocking
and disappointing.


i
a
m
a
n
c
h
o
r
e
d

by the
%knots%
that whet
my stirs to revenge.

the cold raindrops,
they tickle me as i am tied to my
safe&&steady lifestyle,
rankling my disdain for the
emaciated and free
red
balloons.

and sometimes,
there will be:
purples greens oranges and blues
scattered around the lawn
in the sky,
in the cars,
in the lakes
and they hopelessly flounder
in sardonic jest,
on their wild escapades
with the wind
and the tiny frolicking cats and bees.

that is,
until they

l

o

s

e

i

t

,

madly, violently, outrageously, wantonly
parading on the grass,
impaled by the green, with envy,
plants that wish that they could fly,
too.

i
am
stuck.

i can be free,
but i have no choice
but to float in my pre-determined
Calvinistic
doom.

but when i see you have your fun,
and when i see you glide and stride
to your demise,
lonely and withering on the floor
that you used to taunt
so gaily,


i guess i'm not meant
to live that way.

---

Figure me out.

palabras

dubious:
–adjective

1.	doubtful; marked by or occasioning doubt: a dubious reply.

2.	of doubtful quality or propriety; questionable: a dubious compliment; a dubious transaction.

3.	of uncertain outcome: in dubious battle.

4.	wavering or hesitating in opinion; inclined to doubt.

whetted:
verb, whet⋅ted, whet⋅ting, noun –verb (used with object)

1.	to sharpen (a knife, tool, etc.) by grinding or friction.

2.	to make keen or eager; stimulate: to whet the appetite; to whet the curiosity.

–noun

3.	the act of whetting.

4.	something that whets; appetizer or drink.

5.	Chiefly Southern U.S. a. a spell of work. b. a while: to talk a whet.

emaciated:
To make or become extremely thin, especially as a result of starvation.

Criminal

The more we separate,
the more I retaliate
from myself.

Weak feelings begin to manifest
like the sun's rays seeping
from the seed of the Earth.

Mortification transfigures into relief,
insecurities become auspicious possibilities,
first prejudices transcend into first prides.

Sinfully&slowly, my heart melts
at the thought of you.
But as I realize this, I scoop up the drippings
and place my heart promptly into a
refrigerator.

Where, do I think I'm going with this?

The sun sinks sullenly back into its grave,
the moon shines only half-wise, with its illusory half-radiance,
and the seasons whittle away knowingly,
UNDERSTANDING the secrets of
the Universe
which are disclosed to the guild of Believers,
in that weary sense.

Abashed and timidly,
I am left in vertigo,
spiraling onto the cold sand floor
to feel the weight of the world crunching beneath me.

Feigned emotions can trick the fool.
Oh, I've been the Artful Dodger,
and the butt of the joke.
I've done the trickery and caused the foolery.
Now here's my sorry punishment.

You seem so simple and true.
I know it's not up to me to judge,
but the way you present yourself
and show the world
how Proud you are to be You.

You seem so simple and true,
that I just want to copy
and I just want to be there with you
and show the world
how Proud I am to be Me.

You seem so simple and true,
you do not bask in yourself.
And the way you defer self indulgences
and show the world
how Proud you are to be You.

this has always been with me.

Shoot.

I think I can do without.
But the inconsistencies are still parallel:
You want and beg for foreign need,
You despise and reject a familiar deed.

The equations just don't add up.

And, despite the mood,
the context,
the content,
the smiles and laughter
(and all of sorts),
I just can't say.

calculus.

I.
Don't.
Get.
You.

compliments can die

and burn for their cheating ways;
buttering you up for sweet
suffocations and spattering glimpses of
heaven that can only be transfigured as a
disguise.
they're really just a made up heaven,
but they're seriously
my own personal hell.
for giving me illusions that i trusted.
you cheater-
you gave me hope.
and now i'm mortified because i
BELIEVED.

is this your idea of pretty?

she was, basically, a walking closet--
her hair was swirly and turbulent
(like a mop),
and she wore a long and boring gray jacket
that hid any curvatures or contours that she
assumedly possessed;
her leather boots were much too large
and dangled with every stride
of lanky 'sticks', she called legs.

what a foreign mess!

where did all the priorities go?
besides stuffed away in my ass pocket,
like they didn't really matter...

i overshot the moon
yet only touched a glimpse
of the atmosphere!
if even.

-----------------------




eh, i despise the luxury of "trying again."

that mindset needs to mold.

but it's funny that i'm so apathetic

(because i was already foreshadowing my demise.)