shit talks... aaaaaaaaaaaaand?

As the space in between the stars that keep them so far apart. I’ve lost control of my heart. It’s rogue and rubbing on the disappearance of fumes. Barely pulsating with the vibe of being amused. The emotions that supposedly follow it can’t be felt. I’m not broken but I think I need help. I can’t get passion to come back from outta reach. As my dreams don’t fit into my reality. Desires have morphed into a transaction that can’t even be bought. My sighs have been lost. There’s no more jitters ticking the nerve of luv. And the only thing I trust is the making of lust. As my head spins in direction wanting to figure it out. There’s nothing relatable in my chest for feelings but to scream with a shout. Banging on the thumper, trying to revive me once again. I’m no dr and it’s not responding to my hands. One two three, breathe. There’s a flatline as I drift off in a mental state of daydreams. Remembering how I was once so fuckin alive. I guess it’s now a rhetorical goodbye. Possibly. Fuck it and who cares. But do I dare. Do I betray the comfort I seek in life. Or stand firm on entertaining luv as a mime? Fuck if I do or if I don't. You'd prolly think I'm a part time clone. Pretending to swindle you outta what you have to offer in any sense, But that's a belittlement in which irritates my inner subconsciousness. Not that you'd prefer to take notice in how i'm just as human as you. Just fuck it all and be removed. It;s easier to be hate than to be luv'd. words never win when it comes to the push after a good shove. As the deep end is a pleasant way to take a leave. At least on the way down self can breathe.