Does It Bother Your Mind The Way You Bother Mine

It could be defined as this unintelligible sympathy, refined
and infinitely describable.  Words are a feeble comparison.  
My speech is slop, fecal matter.  Repulsive residues spew from ineffective
communication.  And you're speaking, but what the fuck are you saying?
                   To be wrong.

It may run deeper than that, an invasive core crowding the marrow of your bones.
Humiliation in strength, pungent structure uniting beneath sinuous muscle and
skin.  Imperative awareness skittered across paranoid psyche - psychosomatic ridicule glorifying nausea.

                    Illness; festering determination.


-
You are difficult in your footholds.  
                    I hate you for your mind, the irreversible opposition.  
                    Pouting, puckered flesh.  Pink
                    inflation.
                    I hate you for your stability.
Molested beings wrought into life - monsters spawned through uncorroborated evidence.  
                    And I hope you come to understand that you've won.  
Piercing vernacular resonates with a power, intentions beyond my understanding.
                    Shall I describe your divinity?
                    Need I degrade myself further?


-
My jaw slacks, senses sharpen.  It's like waking up, pulling out the breathing tube.
                    The first breath after coma.
Oxygen unfurls from my lungs, gushing into the outside world.
And it's different, almost as if I'm vital;
                    essential.

                    No one speaks of it.
To be specific is bothersome, and why take the time when no one understands anyway?
                    I'm losing it - the pinnacle, spindle.  
Irrelevant descriptions malfunction, my words fail to define experience.  
                    The echo is a burden,
                    detailed and intelligent.


-
I hate you for your mind, so much like mine.