rthe pointless haranguing has come to a point, a surly little head where the impossible nee improbable becomes a fruitless effort for the ridiculous Rorschach whores, and writing the written frivolity needs the spending time of crept-up downtime in wasted fears... the ghost lightning strikes as moments weary of effort trail by slim, and the earnest artist tries to force that moment into a keepsake format to store away... the fading saving grace decays, and inspiration sprays across the desired effects, boiling the moment up through the veins of the literal culture collected along the surfaces of the earth like moss or perhaps a rusty stylized decay... our passions are our greatest strengths, and fears that protrude out of sight into the next life as the now tries to become something more than us, which makes me beg the question 'what are we?'... we are our own burdens, and sometimes the best we can do for ourselves is to actually think through the steps we take to make things happen in favor of positive enervation as opposed to negative feeding habits, projecting into the nearest vessel our frustrations and rage at this impotent system surrounding us... how do we cope with the mechanisms that prevent us from taking in the bliss all around us?... the trust that gets tried to destroy, that tries and toys with the emotions... showdowns that remind us of the lost innocence that once only dimmed our perception of control in a fascist time tunnel machine, methodical timing retreat as the nerves lost touch with faith, but what becomes of death as we choose to take this spill too late... falling with crutches loosed with fate through taken haste touching chaste, the emotions bitter faithless taste, flavors and the taken faked bow... i always wonder, but the grain is against me, the conformity... the steps taken that makes me fake, the faithless take is the chosen way, and still the same yet into light we seem to fade... why intoxicate the mind away from prospective ways?... are we chosen at all?...
Thanks, khet.
