The Weight of Your Design

Old wounds, due salt
Canned epistemic rot
I've been ensconced, slow-burnt, and caught up with suffocating those old reverse osmotic manners
So wantedly enamored with the unbenign, feinged truths
And epsilon refuge from recreant inquietudes
It’s such fatuity that finds you oft indifferent

But one day the vise let up, your knees fell to the floor and you were reeling from the startling weight of your design
The former ceiling up and lеft without any trace of known divides
And what a tragic state whеn you blamed all your friends for your pallid stasis, and the weight of your design

Besides your remorse for your, uh, former self
In spite of the renewed perspective, you tore out your insides
Saying, "How could you do it? Help me see through this!"
The dopamine had lost all effect
To exscind discursive manner
Left stoic, yet enamored with deader sides of you — too apathetic to diffuse the amplified inquietudes (that secrete in spite of pituitary uptake)
Through all the din and anomy, could you listen for all the bleak metaphors that yearn to know that we notice all of the headlong retorts that strain to focus our focus?
When you're through convolving, just pray we only notice

When you decide you don't mind, the awkward tete-a-tete vibes between abstract and refined truth
I mean, how long could it take you to be forthright, to be contrite, to be all right with the inevitable weight of your design?
(Ache to abscise and weigh less than you do / failed to cognise the you that made you, you / high time to break it down and ingest what you can't quite chew / just feign you're surprised, for the reprise when...)

You were reeling from the startling weight of your design
The former ceiling up and left without any trace of known divides
And what a tragic state when you blamed all your friends for your pallid stasis, and the weight of your design The diploic mass devised to separate the sides between the million times you've vied and sighed