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THE_RE:TARD_IS_me/you

the result of anticipation becomes nerve-wracking to all unjust levels of expectation… whose movements reek of asshole, and the tension grows stronger, wronger even though the word is not implied… thought becomes the harness of creative pistoning, spitting negative energy out like a centrifuge, and it flies out like some weird and incredible rain… the intolerance is strong in this one… the beast of feeling becomes very much like a bomb, and it seems to disintegrate the other perspectives involved to such a degree as to call it something else entirely… is it any easier to lash out with emotional energy?… the grinding abomination that human can become is so much more laced with spite that the flesh hangs off the features in anticipation of the next flawed move to decay into nothingness… this beast, this skeletal mass, is exposed for what it is when it moves without admitting what exactly it is… what is this hideous vulnerability anyway?… is it the appearance degrading into some parody of self into absence?… this thing makes me itchy with regrets, and yet the pump is always self-serve… a self-serving dismembered idea of what real could ever be, imagined or otherwise, and the fear cakes our boots like some inordinate feces that we see as divine until the point where it proves us to be wrong… we are the slower children of the species that designates that everyone else take over because of our laziness, not in spite of it… the retarded growth upon the neck of this divine beast, we are as cancer, a constellation of consternation… the stars align to make our appearance known, and yet we are refused for the filth that we attain while alive… the spittle roils out our mouths as the creatures living inside rebel against our ideals of a future inhabitation of life everlasting… we are not incredible, we are but a facet of the insanity that means to make us whole despite ourselves, and the true faces that we seem to show everyone else… the doctors sell us a truth that becomes the equivalent of health, and we feel as though to be healed, but our minds wander away just as we get used to the structure of creation… we are creators, and yet we hold back to find that we are useless when we seem to take our positions for granted… do we even know what the real is?… are we allowed to see what the truth is?… i don’t think we ever see the truth while we are living, but instead seem to enjoy an idea that simulates free will to some degree… we inhabit a plane of reality that takes material form, and bends it through the prism of emotional pain and stress… we condemn each other because we expect the worst of everyone… the morons and the assholes alike, their movements are measured sequences in annoyance, and the only expectations to meet are the wrong ones to know… the taboos drain us of life and liberty to think that what we are doing is right to some aspect greater than ourselves… do we even deserve the pain of this kind of abuse from fated interaction?… i will always wonder whether it stands to make a difference in any way that i will ever see while alive… the eyes as organs toward understanding… i think not…

Thanks, khet.