there’s tragedy in the stars

who would’ve thought that losing resolve was such a lucrative sought after muse?
because true tragedy talks volume but the channels on mute.
channeling through galaxies having to move supernovas with raw: passion.
any intuition is an intuitive loss.
so superfluous, the way it happens; a dying sun sparks creative patterns.
tiresome survival at the cost of my madness.
theres such an interstellar sting, to the inner selfless kid that
finds himself in brink of that trigger of a dwelling sink.
theres a dimmer from the lighthouse miles away,
but there’s a vignette at the end of the tunnel that i wish that i could explain.
emotions bruised could consume you, in all.
alive, but numb in the same extraction.
elapsed time expands in this black holes chain reaction.
I blame my sadness, a loophole of unfinished business.
I love kisses when the suns dimming.
so dense, the fumes from the smog, allude to the fact that it’s useless;
come on. I came through from the fog, face to face with confusion.
help. my supercomputer doesnt understand how to do this.
interpret binary as separate emotions.
let the stars explode so i can say i felt the explosion.
let the radiation mutate whats wrong with me,
to reshape the relay of this indistinct prophecy.
instead? its controlling. extending its console;
for a better understanding of a severed lovers hand.
came up empty-handed, the stars in the sky have become so unenchanting.
people who know me, don’t even try to get it.
too depressed to write from my perspective.
alive, but dead. don’t prescribe the meds.
i wish i wasnt allowed to blink, so
i wouldnt lose moments, and still heard the sounds of them:
like, whats the point of sadness when nothing comes out of it.
a briefcase full of to-do lists with nothing to do.