I felt the resonance of harmony
while the speaking of the walls
coerced me into a state of calm.
The object of my human side
is to find upon which line I lie.
Is it the one of psychosis
or the excitement of the third line.
Bi-polarity co-authors
changing connection
from subway stations
to the lashed lights
flashing to asteroid induced beats
breaking down into
the words of a typewriter
with transformative properties.
Night time stars shine bright with
knowligious screams from
millions of learnt miles
while oxygen conducts the brazed
grasslands into consymphonies,
leaving each branch scraping
so leaves may be allowed to applaud
the ever changing constants
of retold stories.
Calling to those intangible ideals
to materialize
and bring their followers
to comprehension,
it’s not difficult to see
that it’s there,
that insanity
spinning in circles
as it sings the newest top twenty,
or rather the bottom of the barrel.
The resin’s been scraped
and we’re supposed to breathe in
the words of artists
too plain to be humbled
by their works,
their fame
bred,
fed
and
condemned
by ego’s ever expanding.
Tangents are tangy after effects
of this twice smoked state of mind,
air thick with smoldering thoughts,
mindless devotion have
this current generation clouded.
Branded they’ve been
caught and tagged
at prices far too high
for the product not wanted,
brought by falsely peaceful corporations
which have us foolishly brandishing
dark thoughts,
shining guns,
and the faces of the dead.
When is the price too high,
or have you yet to realize
there is no price too high
for your sanity to relieve,
nor will it take lightly
a candy coating
for the daily vitamins
prescribed,
ensuring a sure glimpse of truth
beyond the walls of your Empyre.
Are your blinders to set to see
that your peace of mind sits in a glass house,
just a thrown stone away from cracking,
shattering what little tie holds you
to what you perceive as truth?
Can you imagine picking up those pieces
that were once your life?
Hard to do when you’re lost to vanity,
noticing only your thousand framed face
while blood trickles from your hands,
wounds winding the course of time
leaving behind verbose trails to aid
in your unbridled return to
the surface of sun-drenched memories
punctuated by foreign invasions
of advertised deaths.
You **** yourself to gain recognition,
but are resurrected by laughing gods
finding humor in your perceived sorrow,
knowing your story just another set of
one wrong placement, they push you
finding your god a benevolent being,
playing your suicide in reverse,
a miracle too large
to be measured on some scale,
the ripple effect of
performing just to flaunt.
Now born again,
you regain your militia’s
malicious status,
rejoining the ranks of an army
unheeded by threats,
torture,
pain,
or empathy.
They care only for members
and will be the truth
by any means possible.
Run along now,
you don’t want to be late.
The Masses don’t care
if you are left behind.
Have fun with
the like-minded “individuals”
as you agreeingly debate
the newest trends,
laughing at the means to your ends
you sit with your bleach-blonde brethren,
your Barbie-doll *******
and your bigoted behavior.
Just make sure you’re still laughing
next time you look out and see naught
but that thousand framed face.