Healthy

Health returns, at the cost of inspiration.

Bad health

Illness continues, a brief break is required.

Ill

Too write to ill, too ill to sentence.

Morning shore

Everything is tired.
Drowsiness laces bodies.
An ache that burrows,
a brow that furrows.
Caffeine winces a sleepless tongue.

Movement

To dance, is to express oneself through movement.

I capitalise upon this definition, by attempting to express every human emotion in a movement.

To experience more than one emotion at a time, is to be an embarrassment.

Nothingness.

The floor is empty, however, so is my sense of achievement.
Either aggoraphobic or sensible, I evade the siberian overlay.
A Cartesian daydream resorts in an agitation against nothingness.
Company returns from a fantasy world,
to a world of mundanity, I hope.
A shallow inane world is better than no world.

Waiting

Time ticks,
tocks,
stocks twitch,
a sharp itch,
scratching the heart strings,
diaphonous wings,
of trusting,
thrusting ideas of safe things,
fine things, yet no rings.
No rings; so wrong,
I bumble and stumble,
becoming beheaded,
through the dreaded,
dented unsplendid,
untimely passing,
due to crashing?
Waiting and blaming,
whitting outside me,
the chaos unseen,
from their infernal machine.
The truth exudes,
precludes doom.
So, waiting, facing hatred,
pernicious forgiveness,
forgets my own sickness,
my fedupness, distrustness,
In the hostile smile of I.

Summit

Polar cold roots my feet,
Walking along an ornamental road.
Cars lay dormant,
Powdered by mother nature.
A long walk,
A long frustration.
Wishing, reliving, rewriting.
Yet the issue stands,
and is consumed by excuses,
Spinning inards aborting the likely truth.
I feel Occam shake his cleanly shaven head, yet I am too cold to feel the extent of my own self despondancy.
With warmth, comes realisation.
Gloom snows onto a clement heart, the zest of my existence.

Prediction

A concrete construct,
combined to define,
the dream in mind,
but blurred by time.
Predict and depict,
yet reality evicts.
Too many variables,
Simple guesswork,
Speculation or hallucination?
Forethought or delusion?

A Risk

I've allowed someone to see beneath the camoflague of comedy that I paint over myself.

An aprehension lingers about my person.

I pray that all is well,

in fear,

of actually being able to relate to the song "Last Christmas",

and possibly enjoying the sonic torture.

Please be accepting, if not for my aims, but for my unquestionable hatred of festive dissonance.

Progress;

Hope dawns on the eyeless,

A realisation of choice,

A freedom beyond imagery.

But within such change,

A consortium of ideals,

Conflict determined.

No date for change, but a hyperthetical utopia,

Contorted by realism,

Anticipation must linger.

Can the risk of a daydream be pardoned?

Late

Words consume her, absurdity eating away, catalysed by her own desire for self improvement.
The drumroll of possibility echos through abandoned areas of my mind.
A book stares through me, awaiting my response, met blank.
Two spheres of thought, floating apart,
The venn diagram of communication, forced apart by mere categories of person
An assiduous presence, and a minimalist.
Whatever happened to opposites attract?

Compromise

I look upon the face of a porcelein doll, and a warmth inside me grows.

Her spirit, however, is diminished by either previous interludes, or an innate absense of self worth.

Dutified by this misjustice, an attempt of temerity on my part is met by a mask of denial.

The ambrosial nature of such a being, marred by its very desire for perfection.

The munificent  wonder of the manikin, shattered by dissent of all that is observable.

Without such thought, joy is left to be theory, a harsh division between the observable, and the value of oneself.

Something which borders on the realm of inhumanity, in terms of artistry, it seems, must also be enveloped by a desire to be more than human, to be impeccable. 

Merry?

Clichés desend from the heavens, a habitual smile of inevitable togetherness.
A frenzy of frollicity trancends the masses, competing against their own memories.
I glance to see foliage crippled by audacious snakes of commercialism.
On the square of despair, a pig on a podium.
It must be nearly Christmas.

Awake

Smothered by the warmth of darkness, time flickers, distorted by the fickle calculations of a semi concious mind.
An unwillingness to resume has burrowed into closed eyes,
the day has broken, and sunrise requires doctoring,
so, though drained, I rouse.

Fatigue

Eyes gravitate, the lack of sleep forces an inclination to the floor.
Waves cross a vacant moon.
A question looms, an answer improvised
"I'm just tired"
Optical lips pout,
Head sags, sinks, swoops.
Feelings cloaked by a veil of surfeit artifice.
Staring deep into a mental hourglass,
awaiting the baron orbs.

Nothing more than a glance

A glance. 
A simple collision of the eyes.
Viewpoints conflict, but the conclusion is salient.
Necks pivot,
leaving but a memory,
of the calamitous misjudgement,
that our vision inflicts upon us.

An arrival

Two days since the ending of possibility.

A simple invitation; an excuse or three.

Confrontation, it seems, is easier within the constraints of my own cranium.

The facade is all that stands between the smiles of parties.

That smile of hers is true, and mine is one of a scoundrel, a trickster.
Hiding behind my simper.

Bitter as my sugar isn't.