from a couch, streamy stream

i can’t stand to be behind what it is you do to be kind to the mental state of those around you

i talk to myself late in the night trying desperately to rewrite the codes stuck on spindly dendrite ends waiting for me to pretend i’m like all of you

and that’s true

except nights i understand my value

when you can find me on the front page of blank blank blank “today” or “telegraph” or whatever you want to call the pages splattered pollack like with information only relating a tradition that we have some connection to seeking truth

can you find me one?

a genuine, truthful, gentle heap of flesh who doesn’t cling to preparation for the next life

more strife?

i’m struggling to see through your blue blocker haze, it left me for days writhing in pain, as i slowly chiseled my words in stones outside your house until the reality that we can’t exist in a moment is captured and placed in a cage holding my head still watching the bird slowly lose the need for wings, and evolve into a position on the food chain as fodder alone

give or take the son-of-a-bitch

and those were the words you decided to hitch your family wagon on while slamming two for five dollar drinks with enough chemical energy chewing it’s way through ignorant nerves to cause you to swerve, and wish i’d cut you off, so you could go off, blow off, the head of a traitor only trying to find truth in the folded fabric of a flag used to brag that somehow you understand the past better than i, problem is, you never read a book

radio stations are modern day campfires where oral-tradition lies will give us another enemy-battle cry, or hero to try, and maybe this time it’ll be more believable than a white skinned man coming back from the dead

your sins won’t save you, neither will your disfigured dreams donning the newest fashion

you’re fucked

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