the result of anticipation becomes nerve-wracking to all unjust
levels of expectation… whose movements reek of asshole, and the tension
grows stronger, wronger even though the word is not implied… thought
becomes the harness of creative pistoning, spitting negative energy out
like a centrifuge, and it flies out like some weird and incredible rain…
the intolerance is strong in this one… the beast of feeling becomes
very much like a bomb, and it seems to disintegrate the other
perspectives involved to such a degree as to call it something else
entirely… is it any easier to lash out with emotional energy?… the
grinding abomination that human can become is so much more laced with
spite that the flesh hangs off the features in anticipation of the next
flawed move to decay into nothingness… this beast, this skeletal mass,
is exposed for what it is when it moves without admitting what exactly
it is… what is this hideous vulnerability anyway?… is it the appearance
degrading into some parody of self into absence?… this thing makes me
itchy with regrets, and yet the pump is always self-serve… a
self-serving dismembered idea of what real could ever be, imagined or
otherwise, and the fear cakes our boots like some inordinate feces that
we see as divine until the point where it proves us to be wrong… we are
the slower children of the species that designates that everyone else
take over because of our laziness, not in spite of it… the retarded
growth upon the neck of this divine beast, we are as cancer, a
constellation of consternation… the stars align to make our appearance
known, and yet we are refused for the filth that we attain while alive…
the spittle roils out our mouths as the creatures living inside rebel
against our ideals of a future inhabitation of life everlasting… we are
not incredible, we are but a facet of the insanity that means to make us
whole despite ourselves, and the true faces that we seem to show
everyone else… the doctors sell us a truth that becomes the equivalent
of health, and we feel as though to be healed, but our minds wander away
just as we get used to the structure of creation… we are creators, and
yet we hold back to find that we are useless when we seem to take our
positions for granted… do we even know what the real is?… are we allowed
to see what the truth is?… i don’t think we ever see the truth while we
are living, but instead seem to enjoy an idea that simulates free will
to some degree… we inhabit a plane of reality that takes material form,
and bends it through the prism of emotional pain and stress… we condemn
each other because we expect the worst of everyone… the morons and the
assholes alike, their movements are measured sequences in annoyance, and
the only expectations to meet are the wrong ones to know… the taboos
drain us of life and liberty to think that what we are doing is right to
some aspect greater than ourselves… do we even deserve the pain of this
kind of abuse from fated interaction?… i will always wonder whether it
stands to make a difference in any way that i will ever see while alive…
the eyes as organs toward understanding… i think not…
Thanks, khet.
