TextualTextual, sexually switching off, slipping off the tongue's saliva like an old friend. Makes me want to slap myself inanely.Strangely.Watching in as many eyes of a spider;Consider our preferences,Analysis of myself,As if I'm not myself.Explain that to me Phil.Dr.Phil.Tries to get along showing me something in common sense terms between barrages of commercials...Our master leader in bright costumes of the opposite, showing what we our to us, trying to be us, while we make him ourselves entirely.Find life sometimes, to be as ironic as the movies; finding furthermore, my expectancy of that, therefore proving my point."Gil Scot Heron" Said we live in waiting for John Wayne.He said, that instead,We got Reagan.Where are we now? Now, we've come across as imperialists towards the rest of the world's perspective. Claiming a global warming, in order to keep a common goal to preserve interconnectivity.Therefore, meshing ourselves, in the ever tightening wrap of our own devise, our
FocusThe beginning is the hardest part of everything isnt it?And as always, after the ball has begun rolling, our crashing halt, we hope, resonates through all the others as monumental.. In our oxymoron we hold the bars of our cage up for the next one to come along before our person disintegrates. It is the beginning and the end that held our fear in outstretched hands. An envisioned death, darkly clad and menacing; far apart from our sleep-like revisiting. Instead of waiting, it was proposed to myself in the internally dualistic manner that humors me, that in imminent death, I would end it myself, and quickly at that.But on to whatever story it is I was thinking of earlier. All is in order to permit my overshadowing; which may just consist of the story itself, in a twisted manner; pleasing me always insanely. Words may be shifted during, or afterwards, but what remains is the cage of ignorance that holds you.In our blossoming flowers of life; decorated in the
False StructureAs slow as a smoker's strollI roll around the 'bend'Mending broken thoughts that shatterMy John Travolta stareTrying not to care
Something Similar Aren't You?Like, a simile to begin with, characteristic point before the 'I' that I represent well; before the paper and the pen's dualistic proportions; measured out and cut up by a mathematician plagued by loneliness.Shows me how much I will never learn, but inspiring my forgiveness.Weaning the belt loop; leaning down in acquirement... representation of current madness, devoid of an awareness unmarked. Personified concurrence, falsely parallel lined with majesty and worshiped continually...Consider that child of gold...eating your ash with blackened lips, and swallowing profusely; voraciously devouring what your case held in the past.Maddeningly intertwining that of which you've hated most....Watch the mother of whom walked in shadows of the moonlight; casting rays of her own, whom lit your soul for eternity.She holds this tower, whom spored a rebelliousness you've overlooked simplemindedly. Monolithic, she too rose from lurid darkness to similar shadows; pertaining to your repetition, sh
HereIn our absentmindedness, we're followed by shadows that surround us in our sleep. Distorted reflections of an emptiness so defined, which defy our description of the opposite. It is not our choice to spiral out of proportion. Our repetition defeats us in the end; simplifying our interest, and swallowing us in torture.I do not see my life this way, as an individual, I am the first. But in pure contemplation we are equal, running the same system of machinery that we consist of. Making up an evil that I describe carefully; being rather masked and vague, as to lend you a temporary mystery.It seems in the mind's eye of rebellion; caught in crowds, and retained in a form of insanity, that our loneliness be characterized into a whole; alienation at its best, crouching stealthily throughout every thought that makes our day.These thoughts pervade her mind in an ambiguity. Coming from elsewhere, in her opinion.Entitled, and incorrect.