The time numbs. I want it raw like it was.
Like masturbation and murder.
Something powerful and honest.
I let lies continue.
Fantasies I tease myself with.
I never follow these potential trails.
I’m terrified of not having blissful reverie.
Closure haunts me. I’m scared of definition.
I live in a time that never ends.
I breath the exhaust we know but cannot see.
The world spins upon my shoulders, I pass it on without using my hands.
People die, it’s distant.
Life doesn’t mean much.
I live here in a puddle.
I love all the potential I have to waste.
I don’t know what I would slobber on without it.
I want something raw.
Something abrasive, without some sort of superficial veil.
If I brush back another thin facade just to uncover a clearer image of bullshit.
I’ll slump the world with my bear hands, and whatever blunt object is abreast.
The ensuing postlude or coattail if you will, is gruesome and redefines the word genocide.
Life passes by because it’s not cut with iron anymore. It’s chiseled away with fantastic stone and underlying hopeful chimes of music. A method to which leaves reality unclear, and insipid. Quite literally dull and un-vitriolic.
The time jingoes tore babies from teats, bounced sore bosoms, and buried John Doe’s in mass graves beside schools. Is long gone.
I live in a butterfly massacre.