Plush Needles

Just like The Great Gatsby movie. It's all kind of aesthetic...

Lightly pressed but highly vicious,

Dismantled under the pressure of the slightest chore

My mind becomes a mass of lost despair

Like a thermometer that reads higher when it’s cold

And a body that freezes, without first shivering,

Or getting sensuous goose-pimples that seem raw

On a Caucasian, accentuating a tiny hair on that cold body’s arm

Yes, what I do not know

Is if I am lost because I’m in despair or in despair because I’m lost,

Because I can have all the right intentions

And say selfless, passionate things

But, is it empty passion in an ultimately selfish intention,

To save my self, comfort, my health.

Because a man can work tirelessly toward a dream

And the same kind of man lay helplessly dying on a hospital bed

Both are the same

People see both like a glance into eyes

No body looks at just one but they look at the pair,

The set; the million-dollar success and the hospital bed,

And maybe that is why

I sit here every day wanting to do something and doing nothing and

Watching others cry and die, and asking why I cry, and knowing I will die,

There’s no way to know, and the body is cold,

Like the walk home in the rain, from work at the poor place that smells like that non-glamorous America

That musty smell, weird look, and unshakable perception

Of something not-so-comfortable

That broods that sense of ridiculous agony

As unstoppable time never-stops away

Author's Note

I'm all you need.