Seething-Anima

you dreamt, as a babe, of the Promised Land and went, as a pup, to indulge you've learnt to loathe all that it holds sacred because it is only held so and you can't help but hate your own home, hollower still so you should dream now of turning tides turning tails resting noble ambitions so pivotal to your "Promised Land" resting all that you prized, and all that was found to be fiction no heroes exist, and there are none to be saved, save alongside, or worth saving no battles to quell your itch for justice no grand wrongs to undo and no grand individuals who would undo them just a global standard: absorption by the apathetic and

my BB Gun, from my youth your harmless, plastic pellets entrance to this day it isn't what's being shot or how, but the act of shooting at all gunning for glory and never knowing it, and perchance a bullseye BULLSEYE the bull's part blind Taurus never looked so good he looks so good now that his mind's eye's been bullseye'd been broken his mind's as clear as he looks, as he sees BB Gun, look at you Taurus does all we've done is nurse our swollen memories of you together you're the closest I, for one, have ever come and that closeness is still all I have whether it was intentional, wanted, feigned or not it was a hopeles

Gaze upon my pulsating castle's silhouette against its own, fixed night sky and despair, for it is that ghastly; I designed it to be so. I own and tend this wretched property, built it even in a manner of speaking - that is, from the inside out and passively - but its master I am certainly not. Who that is, I cannot say. I have never crossed paths with my castle's master, and come to think of it never caught a glimpse of a portrait or a whisper of a name in all my lost years spent roaming the halls and dusting the walls, pulling weeds in the enclosed courtyard garden. Constructing. I built and continue to build my warm castle vast and can r

at times like these when I could really use a push I've got this sense that I can place my palms over my chest and call forth my heart engorged crystalline flushing with flames to spill out and coat my skin and I'd lurch and I'd grin dripping from head to toe with energy with which to champion both life and death

wayward in the daily prescription of teetering summer romance fantasies I am loosed from the lofts of a red chocolate daze as the sunset and the drizzle are moved to impart something hopeful here and now, end to end are the perfect arches, the perfect circles one within the other, and in tandem rooted in the forest floor a colossal gate in the sky calling me out from across the street from across the land radiant upon the hillside I've scanned a trillion times over from the comfort of home is the fabled double rainbow, come to town to taunt the crispest, the fairest I've ever captured in my eye vibrant, true, and glorious, cray

i don't believe in visiting temples, visiting churches i don't believe in the bibles i believe in the spirit and my conscience's version of sin so sit back and suckle, you dim-witted devouts on not one but seven separate grains of salt as i sing you this song of hate seeped in sin, saturated with smut the world turns down as it turns around and rots a film of decay, we become the things that we make acceptable the things that go unnoticed turn my spit sour as i watch in contempt all these people i can see i have noticed that the more i sedate myself the more i sedate myself and the quieter i become and the less i care the

Non-Voter's Manifesto I'm supremely bothered by people preaching and pressuring that specifically my vote matters. Ooh, are you voting? Ooh, who for? Ooh, why not? Ooh, that's a real disappointment. Let me explain why you're simple for thinking the way that you do, anti-voter-apathy enthusiasts: A) I am a content first-world citizen whose lifestyle has never obviously intersected with the political realm. That is to say that in all my history and in all the probable future, regardless of who wins elections between the head candidates (i.e. the home invasive mud-slingers), I know no different. I can recite the names of a couple main partie

the Knights of Life and I I don't know who they are we storm the castles of death and die each night and every morning lovelessness adorning... glimmers of hope in our stony eyes unfinding we rifle through tar

the sultry voice behind inhibition's eulogy enrapturing by way of wrongness he is so very amicable as he indulges all his impulses all the condemning ones, all can this be done? vulgar pioneer of my respect character rich with virtue laced so perilously about his sins it can be done, he says and beckons from the other side for me to join him it changes nothing you've only been missing out heartful aegis, justify these former viles the call sounds just like an incantation just like he means to resurrect and wed mother Tiamat just like some soothing rendition of my own theme respect respect I would respect such miasma crafters

these four walls know one knows them better i know nothing better except perhaps the wanting to collapse them there is a window and a door the window shows nothing the door leads nowhere everything that is anything to me is contained within these four walls yet nothing that I want the only thing that I want is not and it always comes back to that when waiting for tomorrow fills every day's schedule something is amiss and don't I know that it's amiss