What in the actual fuuck are we doin'? Shootin' one another equals out to a no win Showin' only that we are capable of goin' where we've already been It's been provin' Even good men can watch sin turn into addiction Jonsen for a fix 'n looking for a substance to mix in To distort your perception of the mess you're in Crossing that line between wishin' straight into non fiction And once you do that you've gone way beyond fixin' But don't nobody listen to reason, we witnessin treason As the agonizingly slow killing season eliminates believin' So we turn on our kin and every non-citizen with different skin And every US born citizen with a different complexion or opinion We lack the discipline to avoid the tail spin That we've gotten ourselves in, onboard this doomed zeppelin A people forsaken so that the one percent can rake in a few more billion This creates a toxin, affectin' everyone from grandparents to children Shortenin' the distance to your coffin A foundation of sand, yeah, we all know how that'll end I gotta question, who pays the dividend? When push comes to shove, and it will, who gets the win? When all the frustration of an entire nation comes to a head and our "leader" is out on another vacation What's it going to take to tip the scale in our direction? Maybe its to late to take any kind of action At least any that will bring some sort of satisfaction Only living a fraction of your life and the rest through a corporation No line, no separation, just a part of the consumer relation And they don't want you to awaken and realize what's been taken That's the reason for conspiracy, call it a theory to add complication and feed the confusion Make the equation so impossible you raise fear to an elevation where you can strike with no confirmation The laceration that severed any credibility will be our damnation This great nation of ours quickly turned into the greatest abomination Almost as if we set up and executed or own assassination A goal of global ******* has always led to a civilizations extinction History has proven to repeat itself and over and over again...we miss the lesson So let it sink in...if this is our new direction we're destin to lose the beacon No hope of a better tomorrow to believe in If only it was as simple as leavin but it's not, this won't even stop if we destroy the villainous demon So what do we do?...I have no ******* clue but this boat is sinkin'
When a surgeon had to operate on a man, she was ******. She botched the operation because the patient was sexist. She learned he was sexist and botched the operation so that he would die. She bragged about it to her friends, it was something that she did not deny. But she didn't expect one of her friends to turn her in. Now she's rotting in prison, she's no longer a surgeon. She doesn't even realize she did wrong, she thought she had the right to ****. A surgeon is never supposed to take a life, it's a surgeon's duty to try to heal. She thinks her patient was **** but he was a better person than her. At least he didn't **** another human being, he was not a murderer.
The Human dream became the Martian dream as we slept on our Mars-bound voyage. We could see colonies amidst landscapes pristine, teeming with strange Martian plants discovered post-bloom.
The Martians were adorned with ivory carvings and had surrounded themselves with esoteric paintings of marauding faces. They spoke in strange tongues, switching between Martian and another almost incomprehensibly clandestine tongue of barbaric intonation. And although they clutched sharp, ivory spears with a fierce resolve, they remained docile in our presence, and told us of the vivid dreams they had engaged in as a group prior to our arrival; abstract dreams, tinged with fragmented images of insemination and visitation by the Mars Moth-Man— he who was oil-funded, and had been delivering concrete messages to the people of Mars ever since the first settlers had arrived in the distant past.
But, once we had truly set foot upon Mars— from outside the strange realm of dreams which lives solely within our collective mind's eye— we could not have foretold, our shared dream was revealed to be a sprawling wasteland of jagged rocks and infertile soil.
I grabbed her by the waist in the disco-ball light And said that we didn’t have to stay here and dance if she had any better ideas.
Everyone smelled like liquor, Vultures circled in masquerade frowns to listen in on our plotting, To drag our way out of the party Toward somewhere more secluded.
But the alone time we made for ourselves was just that, Alone in the most quiet and heartbreaking ways That could only ever materialize when you’ve communicated perfectly with someone By a complete accident of circumstance.
And the balancing act of the words you’ve placed rigidly inside of hers begin to unravel Beneath the weight of all the questions you ignored to ask.