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Cycles of Critique.

Breathe deep.
Maintain a stone face.
Stay light
in this heavy atmosphere

as it hits you. Make
a space for it,
compartmentalize,
bury it
and walk away.

Another sharp jab.

Drop it in the grave,
toss it in the room,
lock the door,
abandon it again.

Run away.
Isolate.
Medicate.

Strive to silence
the violence raging
in your mind.

Back in the existential ring
forced, by nature
(always the excuse)
into the role
of an emotional punching bag
for the subtle once again.

Temperature rises.
Steam clouds the eyes.
Pot is boiling over.
Packed like sardines.

Rising earth
ready to burst
before the tombstone.

Suppress your hypersensitivity
and overreactions
until your system
simply cannot take anymore.

With nowhere else to go,
it explodes.

Catharsis:
vomit for the mind,
diarrhea of the soul.

Undisciplined intensity.
Raw extremes.

Beat yourself down
till you’re flatter
than a masochistic
doormat, pummel
yourself with all
that you can

with self loathing
from a dark
place inside stained
with self-doubt

in some fucked up,
misinformed attempt
to balance
yourself out.

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