The infection of youthful desire

Ounces of freak in the five pounds
of me. Fact of the matter
is parts starve in the helium
they huff for loneliness,
parts of this thing I carry around
that encases my neurons who too
find no respite in laying down.
What above races below does not,
is catatonic, nightcap of analepsis
that shaves the skeleton of my drive
to the marrow as my muscles narrow.
Have I become a water beggar?
Have I become an outcast from the hive
of others like me, who borrow
their faces from the plaintiff trees
that harden in the frost
and turn skinny in the holocaust
preyed upon the protozoa
alive in us and begging be released?
Who threw the first smoothed stone
was borne later on sycamore crossed
as his back’s burden like mine lost,
not once to find a samaritan to please.

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~ by Jeremy on January 10, 2011.

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