The last in my tribe

I want an academic, analytical mode to ensconce my remaining brain neurons other than the mind's ardent desire to envisage wild rolling in the hay and gravy. Oh the pleasures of the world you are such a trick! Oh lonely spinsters how can you do it, oh erudite of knowledge how can you preoccupy yourself with the sole of human's curiosity ever so independently. Is it the scarce of passion or the abundance of passion that leads human procession, never is it the median of all things middle, ever?
I ponder my remaining brain neurons on a corpse of a red rose that of lost love, I cry over my growth ever so stunt in imagination, I can not write,in worlds I can never enter, in knowledge I can never decipher, only the touch, the smudge of killer red lipstick on his neck and lips. I wallow in the den of my ancient tribe seeking the heart's knowledge and feeds to my inner soul...I am the last lost shrew of my tribe, let my dither of where I belong die, Die, so I can ponder Plato and Pythagoras.

On a pillow,

lived a tear,

on a pillow,

the asserted fear,

On a pillow,

A secret scribble....

of words utter....

incomprehensible tatters,

like a torn fluff of pillow's feathers,

scattered in space,

like wishful dreams,

attached in voidness,

and just belong high up,

on ink clouds,

pouring red scribble,

of heartaches.

on a pillow,

warmth of mother's womb,

is gone,

on a pillow,

a lover's kiss,

is lost,

in tears....like wishful dreams....

on a pillow....