Borderline

D.O.I.'s Neologisms:

There’s an undying illness over my head, which was probably the interpretation given to me when I tried to find forgiveness. I was trying to find a witness so that when I’d be gone, they’d begin this journey right, so our brothers and sisters won’t ever have to fight as hard to win this. But I’ve taken too many steps in reverse. I’ve taken too many steps with a curse, making situations better, but other ones worse. I lost not one, not two, but indefinite, and I credit it with my mark of approval, I authorize this removal of my cold, hard, non-tasty noodle so someone can enter the abyss, find exactly the mistake I missed, then take my place with a cold, hard fist that will say that I won’t stand for this. My presence alone will permeate the grains of sand that delicately is hindering my steps, preventing from protecting, naturally selecting the biggest loser to win first, the most diabolical seducer to deliver another verse, to entrap their minds in this same curse.

There’s a mystery I’ve been trying to solve. Going back to 1996 and learning to evolve, to get new abilities, to try and dissolve their oppressive reign and re-establish my divinity. And it’s killing me. I just want to be okay, but my flight and heart are stuck on an endless ground delay while ingesting the place I call home gives me moral decay. And all of these services are pre-paid for. So, I must endure them. Every time someone asks me to help them, I have no choice but to pursue them. To send my heart on a while goose chase, ducking guardrails and finding a better place, losing my breath before the end of the final race, and finding a way to express myself in good taste. I didn’t want to say no, didn’t want them to go to some idiot, charging 65 dollars just to take your issue to his affiliates, lay it on the table, formulate a solution looking from the opposite perspective, because the only good detective remaining is you. And me. But humility forces me to crawl back into my shell, give the aura off that, everything is well, and forever live in this amniotic hell. This situation requires speaking on. Though I’ve tried keeping on point, or reaping what they sow from disjointed hands, my failure is apparent. When a parent has to decide on keeping their child in their home before they’re ready just for a life choice they have to do to keep their mind steady, the palms of God perhaps get a bit sweaty before that child has to relegate their heavy contribution to the world to a support group. And it’s funny, because so many go through this distortion, that it’s become even more common than inner-city abortion.

I’ve blown my distress out of proportion so someone else could adore, could care, could spend so many hours in stale air circulating the area around me, typing up solution after suggestion, wise words after three-hour lessons. This enemy doesn’t realize of the force that he’s messing with. So he keeps me guessing. He keeps me from undressing with the one unrelenting, who will change my life path through dissenting, preventing me from picking up the phone for fear that his call will invade my home. So I must traverse while keeping this illness over my head, alone.