Steady Composition

Lifes eternal quest,
A steady composition laden with difficulties upon a dysfunction,
It breathes through permeating endeavors of rapture upon the soul;an outcast, we breathe and are elemental to our human void, essential in every respect.
In todays discussion, we will directly tune into that part of our self that has an uncontrolling urge to negate everything in your life while exponentially building a steady floe of guilt-ridden thoughts associated with your lifestyle and attitude. That part which can either balance and control your emotional being, or whip into a frenzy, rolling sideways,backwards,forward,up and down, and almost comically tossing you like a tuna salad while you drown in a wasteland of melted cheese and fish. That is, dead fish and processed cheese. Again, looking closely to what we call imposed adjication(at least that’s what I call it,) the adjectives dead and processes are very symbolic to our lives. Whether a drug addiction, a recluse drunkard, a crackhead smoking junkie, a possessed and habitual liar (and I’m not talking about the little white lies people always telling us "those are not ‘really lies.") We think dead. Let me repeat: We think dead. Meaning we’ve killed ourselves by way of unctonrolling emotions that do not forgive us.
I often say time to time, healing begins with changing the "dead" in your life and finding life through a lil friend called the muse. This is you inner voice that tries to balance your
Flashback scenes of memory,
Whimming Whimsically, and wondering,
Is truth so daunting? My life so flagesque?
Waving pride for deadly desires.
Has this eternity come to this?
I want to look at…I want to look at,
I want to smell a rose garden rather a cemetery,
I want to create rather than cringe.
Too bold for self respect,
Too strong for self- ruin.
I hold the pieces; they don’t lie,
Yet in these walls entombed by Her,
She keeps the guess,
In delightful delight.
Is there a their upon our scope?
Let me hear crowds rather than scorns,
Let me smell roses and break off their thorns,
Let my soul see the light;plus my muse needs it bright.
Drawn; by the way of the mind,
Kindled and churned through my inner desires.