Forgotten with time, Lost beyond lines, Obvious the obliviousness is mine;
I am without directions, Knowing not where to go, Following the path always further from my home;
Make what you will from that which you do, Forget what others say, Possibilities up to you;
Dumb founded is the place I once stood to listen, Ideas like water, When the sun shines they glisten;
Anesthesia creates the feel of being numb, Even though the pain persists, Neurons tell me that there's none;
Having nothing to say is worst than being mute, Being tone deaf is bad if you play the flute, Tasty and flavourful is the flesh of rotting fruit.
Saturday, May 23, 2015
Monday, May 4, 2015
Hypotenuse Stammer
Attracted at the inciting desire to win, when ego speaks loud enough, admiration dissolves the sin-sations felt from deep inside, keeping secrets is the unspeaking of what it is to hide. I have none more for which to behold, I spoke aloud, and stood quite bold. What is this undoing that could possibly be, the matter at hand is the issue with me.
This issue I'm sure that I'm equally unsure the outcome is certain, its the actions that can spur up startling retribution in the form of a hoax, love or lust can be misguiding, both compile to coax you into states of dissolution, separated by constant evolution of thought. It's this protrusion that put you on spot as the world come crumbling down around you, and even still if you're left in the wake than you're not heading for the hills, in which case sit tight and prepare to be judged.
Living elsewhere can create quite a buzz, living in fear can consume you with fuzz as the real world observes with dauntlessness unrelenting in scores or three to a trillion and what's worse is more and more of the world is slowly drying like paint, if we don't hurry up then we'll never escape. As the vacuum gets stronger, the forces expose that the little things in life like the symbol on your clothes, or the name of the person who originally designed the pants that you're wearing to cover your behind doesn't really matter, what matter's is what's real.
What is real is the question you ask as I feel, the need to explain with exclusion of truth, is the life that we live is like the view from the caboose. At the end we see everything behind us that's past, if we stand on the top then we can see at last, that the tracks up ahead lead into a ravine, should I wait or just jump, in the air should I scream?
This issue I'm sure that I'm equally unsure the outcome is certain, its the actions that can spur up startling retribution in the form of a hoax, love or lust can be misguiding, both compile to coax you into states of dissolution, separated by constant evolution of thought. It's this protrusion that put you on spot as the world come crumbling down around you, and even still if you're left in the wake than you're not heading for the hills, in which case sit tight and prepare to be judged.
Living elsewhere can create quite a buzz, living in fear can consume you with fuzz as the real world observes with dauntlessness unrelenting in scores or three to a trillion and what's worse is more and more of the world is slowly drying like paint, if we don't hurry up then we'll never escape. As the vacuum gets stronger, the forces expose that the little things in life like the symbol on your clothes, or the name of the person who originally designed the pants that you're wearing to cover your behind doesn't really matter, what matter's is what's real.
What is real is the question you ask as I feel, the need to explain with exclusion of truth, is the life that we live is like the view from the caboose. At the end we see everything behind us that's past, if we stand on the top then we can see at last, that the tracks up ahead lead into a ravine, should I wait or just jump, in the air should I scream?
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