i'm so strung out on this mandolin of my self hate, and if i wrote down the words of my heart, would you still tear it apart?

i'm tired.
i'm disconsolate...i'm drowning in the sea of my own anathema...
i feel fatuous.

how do you know if you have good intuition or not?

how can you tell if it's your intuition screaming with each and every beat of your sinking heart or just the sick perverted voice of your underlying concupiscent pipe dream?

when is it okay to put all of the chromatic, chimerical, vivid eggs into the basket of all your endeavors and escapades and abandon the surefire way to garnish the doleful look of acceptance in the eyes of the onlookers that you've struggled to catch a glimpse of for what seems like eternity?

twelve years is a long time to have your heart set on the same fucking thing, isn't it? you'd think eventually things would shift as the prowess of maturity and age progressed to shape your thoughts and aspirations enough to make those pesky teenage desires transform into something a bit less implausible and a bit more realistic and "real world."

do you know what it's like to want something so bad that it replaces the blood coursing in your veins? it's something you're so infatuated with that the possibility of it's nonoccurrence isn't a factor even in your most cogent of thoughts...not until someone wakes you from the narcosis of your opiate...your fantasy...your remedy.

what do you do when your intuition's supposed clairvoyance is screaming in your ears and the glitterati spectating the debacle of your existence demand selective hearing?

what's left when all is written in the little black book of palpitation as "to be" and is discernably torn out, page-by-page, by everything, every factor, and everyone standing around you?

i'm decided...
i'm zealous...i'm floating on a cloud of my own percipience

i'm hopeful

this feeling will burn forever.
and so will i.