The most beautiful girl in my mind
met me last night
and the pilot for “Getting High Airlines”
is a total badass.
that they aren’t real.
Even more so that nothing else is either.
Someone said it’s been a while since I’ve spoken some words on here.
I wrote a thousand lines and crossed them all out.
I don’t write with ink
instead my pen is loaded with oil based self doubt,
the kind that stains the soul and proves impossible to wash out
but this isn’t about a self-confidence drought -
I’m at a loss for words with a thirst to shout and be heard
about something slightly more important than:
"No one gives a fuck about your high score in flappy bird,
you’re just another sheep in the herd,
content with everything you’re sold, word for word, and don’t you see? It’s absurd-“
and it fuels the fire that inexhaustibly burns over a pit of bullshit
with which I need not be concerned.
This is creative stagnation at it’s finest and I’m fucking bored
with the absence of break through,
debating your world view,
drinking coffee day and night just to “get through” but at least,
in the era of my silence, I’ve yet to speak a word I’ve come to regret or wished to undo
but that’s a lie, so fuck it, cross that one out too.
It’s been a long time since I’ve written something. I’ve lost 82 followers since I last logged into this account. Jerks.
Words may not be able to express my rage,
but know that the ramification of
the physical manifestation of this will speak for itself.
The thought of this absurdity boils the blood in the veins in my wrist
and the pressure that builds in my arms seeks escape -
there’s a lust in these fists burning stronger than ever
to feel something
to feel the world crumble under the wrath of their conviction.
This fury demands carnage on unfathomable levels but
my disposition insists that
intellectualization is key.
These hands -
This mind -
are meant to build,
What point can be made when there’s no one left to understand it?