My stomach is the drop.
It is eager and hungry
And where I empty into eternity.
My heart clings to my rib cage,
Scratching and hoping not to fall.
Its tormented sweat fills the tastes for desire of the stomach below.
Always in sight, ambiguity tip-toes around
The delicate seams of my heart threads.
Life beating and rising with optimism
And then tripping and clutching in anxiety.
My heart could be eaten and digested by its very own soul.
Forgiven or forgotten,
To rise or to fall.
I am devastated by my own apathy as I watch the scale tip.
Seemingly I am unconvinced by reality.
I broaden the depths of my stomach and bowels, increasing the fall and
The fear of drowning.
The pain?
The pain.
The Pain! Life comes from this, this is purpose.
I remain convinced that I shall never be convinced of self,
Of value, of control.
Yet these are the things that my heart clings onto.
My very own ego.
Inventing this depth, idealizing this death, inquiring this destiny.
Only with the focus and concentration of my breath do I let go
To find I am standing in a puddle
And have been staring at my back.
