Noetic Babble:

There's this up, down, on, off, emotionless gnawing in the chase. The room of smiles Is where I feel the most out of place. Imprisoned by the shores of infirmity. Every stroke digging the trench of eternity. Love is the paste of life, sticky, permanent, and discolored when it dries. Loneliness is the victor, no matter how one tries. The gut is the courier of truth trying to warn the watchman of consciousness who's always on break. The heart is the inoccuous dreamer, the victim, with a beating to take. There's a poetic storm with a story to tell. It's an analytical nightmare, I'm the observant over thinker manifesting my hell.