Cold

I'm not going to say I'm skilled enough to deal with my emotions, a tangle of debasing complexities. I myself do not think I'm as complex as I wish I were, and I know that I can marginalize my entire self into a black and white anatomy, a melange of narrow and wide, fat and thin muscles. What is so depressing about me? Is it my unwillingness to accept reality as it is? Is it the way I perceive what I observe? Most of the time I haul myself into razor sharp danger zones, toxicities in the air, in the earth. God, I'm so lost for words. And to lose myself is to lose my future, is that it? Will I ever transform into art itself? Isn't the way my lungs suck air in and shepherds it out an example of art? Tell me why the heart aches so badly. Tell me why the mouth bends downwards. Tell me why the day seems so short, and when night finally meets with the sky I am so wastefully useless, curling into what is the travesty of a fetus into a bed that feels like it was made out of the bones of the monsters that haunt me while I am awake. Or is it the net, the online forums and web pages, that cause such disturbance in myself? What do I block? Is there an accurate portal I need to seal? Like the spaces in my keyboard, or the holes on the horizontal sides of my heads. How will I ever complete what is missing if I am blind to what is lost.