Epileptic Excuses

Beginnings of endings and the often sought end of the world live in a little box near my amygdala, with a pencil sketch of the world in a tree and the dregs of herbal tea in a cup that has an orgy of elephants cavorting around its perimeter. It doesn't matter how I view the world to anybody. Arbitrary people tell me I'm beautiful and some days I look like I was mugged by bubbles. And after it all somebody still doesn't have the wit to tell me who I am.
Of course its everybody else's fault. I don't deal with blame in my department, anywho. Wouldn't it be great to dance away the cares of the world? But I can't dance- I took lessons and all that, but something didn't get filed away and now I gyrate my body in a fit of epileptic excuses.
The world's changed, they tell me. Things just aren't the same anymore. The sun is always watching me, and for some strange reason, the world's denying me the rain that my soul cries for. Just to hear the soft reassurance of the world, telling me that it's all ok- that would make it all worth it. To hear the presence of God outside your door and rush outside to feel the joy surround you, the depth and boundless, endless chorus of angelic voices. When you can feel the blessed saturation of the heavens and the sky that has dropped from its endless perch just for you- who needs love?
Yeah... who needs love, anyway?