I am flat-iron heavy with lofty abstractions,

And ship sinking downwards drowning—

full of weightless convictions,

craving justifications, demanding more weight;

wading through the quicksands of grand statements:

baseless theories to distract from other, more tragic, theories.

I am climbing the societal trees of convention in idealistic school-girl shoes—

climbing to the top to spitefully fall;

transformed into a pulp of self-destructive bruises—

into an old woman off her rocker,

producing a dead thud against the pavement once her heart collapses.

Beneath the bedrock foundation

I can hear one hundred tones of laughter— urging me,

creating as many reasons to bend my voice into a similar cadence—

laugh so heavily the honest tears come. 

I could break my own heart to feel the intensity of mind-function bullshit emotion;

mend myself for the sadistic satisfaction of relapse,

mend myself to feel the involuntary convulsions of thought:

disproved and dead; then resurrected by the fear of an empty mind.

I am flat-iron heavy with lofty abstractions,

dead-weighted with the world's firm belief in Hell,

and I would be a transparent byproduct spirit

if not for the forceful sunshine piercing through winter

with aimless nourishment and no intention