Who can get through boring meetings?
Despaired white hair,
with a dry scalp,
brought on by suppressed thoughts of wasting a life.
Many minutes spent on pedanticism.
On notions to impress other Pedantists.
Today we know that people try so hard to win.
Dick swinging.
Vagina swinging.
Everyone is trying to win.
Another dimension of things;
introduction of a degree of self-consciousness; a declaration is still being made.
The primal scene represents the child’s wish for reunion,
as the manual advises to look for something special which renders feeling.
Stars on our chest
masks on our eyes
capes on our backs
Be careful to open the sluice.
it is only a costume.
a dress rehearsal
there is never one.
Feelings that run away with us, clutching our hands and telling us to never look back, to keep on running, to not trust again.
In pursuit to identify a hero.
Always blotted out by the frantic; crushed down by the weight of nothing but a thought.
We gave with one hand and took with the other.
The picture of everyday reality is not fragmented nor is clear.
It is this exact wishful thinking that sometimes.
Most times.
All the time; encourages our dissatisfaction.
None of this is unusual.
People are becoming automated.
But what is the automated they are becoming?
To have trouble living; yet such great fears, other animals are immune from.
Maybe existential thoughts are a gift.
to ride like a wave
knowing you will not drown but gasping at the idea of water in our lungs.
The water never touches are lips.
To be the source of humour.
During routine, each time a lapse of memory in our attempt to solve problems with knowledge.
Entangled within a ball of string; that is the problem.
A name badge.
A set of numbers.
Individually wired for information. Staging greatness based on cosmic developmental allegations.
where birth is lost.
We have lost birth,
and we will lose death; Only before hard driven aggression is universal upon the premise that we need to be one.
We need to become a ball of string...they say.
They say.
the string is useless in a ball... for a ball cannot tie anything.
try not to think of it as string anymore.
Whatever is said, is done with fragile instinct, a naïve rumble.
Gargling bubbles; poured from the tube down the drain; pushed by rain, encouraged by decline, spouted by sound on a breath that cries.
For a sentence is released from its sentence.
A wasted jump from above. Within. Needed in later life? As though that is a thing that is real.
Should we be saving our breath when we need it? But is it not needed now? To inhale the script and to speak the script.
I saw a person rub a word out and replace it with another word.
The sentence still made sense.
But they continued to change the words until I could no longer read it.
The title was the same.
Lines carved into the ground, into the flesh, into memory,
Lines become less passionate to follow when they are fashion rather than heart.