We are our own conflicting truths,
devolving into illusions.
In a universe of debilitating
desires and needs.

There is shame in owning.
Seeking fulfillment to different ends.
Uses - sometimes the nature of abuses!

There is no healthy cause,
Nor disassociation nor friendship,
Nor hope.
Hope - the worst of all.

You gave me the final card.
Could I not play at all?
To bite the bullet of guilt,
Or weather a storm of pain.
And yet all you ask for is love.
And all I ask is -
Does it ever mean anything.

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I think sometimes of space debris,
Tiny remnants of collisions,
Some — head on,
Some — passing grazes,
Drifting endlessly into oblivion.
A symphony of past gravities,
And misaligned trajectories.

I also wonder what we are,
Some — noxious lovers,
Some — fading friendships,
Drifting endlessly into alternate lives.
A violence of our illusions,
Incapable of hope and
humble resolution.

I think we are debris,
the parts of us chipped apart.
While what remains of us,
Is bound to a celestial destiny
In which our stars,
and our collision have played a part.

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