All The Wrong Topics dot com

Make Sure We’re Properly Dead.

Burial of dreams…interring the essence that was self…Where does this go?…What can it lead to next?…I ask these questions, and take mental and emotional journeys to those metaphysical planes, what we laymen would call thought…The cut-off switch…the beginning of the end…Beyond this place, what do I see, and what could be there to greet me?…I fear the reality that lies before my eyes sometimes…I question beyond the existence I must focus upon to create a reality that meets my needs, but I need to find and stay the humble urge as I walk amongst the pedestrian hordes…Eroding bones with each step through oblivion’s loopholes…Dancing a macabre act into the act of fornication, and at times, the conception of newly formed entities…’Mass production profile’ maybe?…We define ourselves with such broad strokes of the sword, a pen in disguise that saves our lives, and we dive into fear’s maw to fetch the dreams that guide….thoughts into rhyming crap obviously…My death was years ago, but it wasn’t a death of permanence, merely a spell cast aside for the structure inside…The alignment of stars in the sky represent my undoing, but still I chug along, burning up faith and fact on equal measure…None taking to the forefront while I relax for a minute or two, and write from myself, giving hope to those that need it most…Where does the rust come from that withers us away?…Expressions worn blank because of winds that blast through the air, whipping about to deaden the threshold forever linking us to other truer planes of thought, and maybe even the creation of a higher function…What are these things we stride inside of, but shells that will consume as domesticated animal…Only the female of the species seems capable of supporting some idea of structure that make other people weep with weakness…Very little progress actually seems to filter through to the place where it is really necessary…I guess everything takes a certain amount of time and patience, these days are rife with booby traps for the unaware, but grand schemes always seem to fascinate my darker heart…The machine rips and roars, but Here we stand, you and I….but it is your eyes that meet the ‘I’ that lies deeper inside than that which normally viewed by the others…Touch me, I’m dead….inside I sense thought, heart, and action…no puppet strings…When we destroy ourselves it should be a proper death, and one to forever rival any other creatures extinct even caused by human hands…The mind can be a terrible organ to use…

Thanks, khet.