something
11-05-2015, 10:33 AM
The composition of words. Composer of thoughts. Puzzle pieces like memories I can't focus or draw. Conceptual theories. Foggy are themes. At the edge of my vision and lost like a dream. I think fables as inspiration. Simplistic and true. My scope outweighs my talent and it's wrenching to prove with every sentence I prune. I sense it's a snippet of what I've intended to do. Nothing's meant, it's just what I could finish that's used. I fantasize; abandon life. Devote yourself to be better, but I know the hell in that effort. I'm an aborted abortion. My genius is tethered to mundane survival. Monday's and cycles of numb, faded eye balls. I love hatred. Primal lust tastes alive. Two sluts late for high school being rough up. Trained to like cruel. American psycho. Cultural hi-jinx. I'm vulnerable. A culprit in crime sprees I cultivate in my mind to poke a space through the time sheets. The smile of a nihilist. Only religious to sciences. A serial killer and product of my environment.