do not cross this line.
man, you really should see a psychiatrist.
Zoloft...he tells me.
it would probably do you some good.
a manic depressive listens to another
somewhat more secure depressive talk about
depression while being depressed
--exiting scene momentarily
self-doubts and inconsistancies petulantly
itch the inner surface of my skull--but not really
an itching sensation...more like a baby who has been
left inside her crib for three consequtive days and
simply wants to GET THE FUCK OUT with a deep
need to be nurtured, touched, held, and kissed.
questions endlessly heaped upon questions
to the point of explosion.
awaiting the inevitable eruption
that quite possibly,
potentially, could, would, and will drown me in
a sea of volcanic ash so passionately hot that even a Red
Giant would shit itself to the point of suffocation in
mounds, mountains of its own detritus so high, even
God would have reason to be alarmed at the blob of crap
inching slowly through the pearly gates. obsessions exaggerated
into compulsions of an obsessive-compulsive shopper who
must have only mis-matched socks...he stands on the seventieth
floor threatening suicide or worse SOCKICIDE and I look up with
the light of the orange bulb gracing the slippery skin of
monuments to manly avarice
wishing, craving, lusting for the warm,
comforting taste of the white, zero-point-five milligram
Zoloftian hard-on in my mouth.