How's overload be overpowered;
when overlooking's the overdue
of mental grasp for over-mending
their mended craft over-truth,
oh, mercy mercy, come cleansing
the winding crashes I've done,
of overfeeding what's so fed
before depression gets fun;
what poverty I've become;
what intellectual poverty;
have reigned aloud since my beginning
of soul-submission to poetry;
oh, poetry poetry, end these,
these conscious wanting to pour
defiled regrets of no substance
for how's my sadness be floored;
no, never when it's sunshine
of plum aurora--I'm cryptic,
of thirsty lurking now before
the dying sunsets I'm lifting;
but how petty lives the paradox,
how petty praying's the poet
for sacred healing of truth,
never mending the truth for it;
what chaos have I breathed
when solitary I've been birthed,
parading childhood through the years,
I've finally mated with the earth;
shall there be nothing I'd hope
even mortality's coming,
for what's awaiting be waited
when nothing's answered my humming.