Virulent thoughts eat me up inside.
How did they become the most superlative contemplations?
The excessive pedantry over minute details of one's self?
Once I was an existentialist, one lost in a menagerie machine,
twirling, twisting, entangling in tales of life.
Now trudging through the brooding ruminations and recalcitrant against it all.
Wanting and waiting on something with the sound of jocularity.
Abiding all the while for the audiation of a din to awake my mind.
To take up a new gauntlet and begin again,
to escape the thoughts that consume my light.
Autonomy to be resplendent again,
to fight and forget their myopic view of existence.
No dole nor division could shift the frame,
recapturing the lost by relinquishing the thing
that one could never be.
But what to say of beauty?
--But this is just another autobiography, examining the prosopography of me.
By: Emma Marie.
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