the cost of this light buzz

and seemingly simple infatuation with death

is freedom –

not the freedom that is illusive, but the

one that when violated is a contradiction

to the innermost self.

~

as a slave to these peripheral

joys and bodily pleasures

I become not soul less, but less soul

each time i fail.

but what is failure?

an arbitrary point on an even arbitrary scale.

~

we all pay the price of death

for being alive,

and yet we are all prisoners of ecstacy

and the mind less quest for happiness.

there was once a beauty of purpose

and action. And now

it is all a blur.

~

and what was once filled with void

is now covered by layers of

compartmentalized nothingness;

each with a label, giving off

like farts of our own that we secretly do not despise,

a hollow conviction that

we are not hollow

~

and yet we are.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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