manuscriptx
New Member
......you're a sad sight to them. Uppity upscale, they act like slovenly criminals of ignorance, wearing silver sandals and veils; an offense to every sight and sensibility. Arrest them; inane parts to everyone’s nature are a loser and fool's game there within. Proposition me and to every mistake you make another one crops up. You act like a drone, a slave to machine; a creature of tribunal crooning, far above and beyond the normal way. I sat under a midnight hour and once spoke of a great stain while the people listened. They believed me, every word and each syllable. They took nothing for granted and ate no lies, riding without imagination while doing it to sell incredible tales of structured truths. Their sympathy spoke volumes. They agreed. Some wanted exasperation, some were just tired. A child once held out his palm and asked if I could read it. The line between indigenous anger and one that is completely manufactured out of my own mind differs only slightly. His mother took him back; she didn’t want him to hear my nonsense. That's what she thought and to some degree, I guess it was true.
Lies, half-truths, misconceptions and narrow sidewinders; tales of story, tales of imagination, tall tales that worried weren’t just words sitting over paper. White transgression over brown, recycled or never used, wrinkled, splashed or covered in ink, the teals are all the same, legal or not. Know your words, their language was ideal, all I could do was wave a hand at gesturing and point, their eyes followed every motion, the sound was not of any importance. Our connection; our attention, our saying to ourselves there is only one worthy truth, consistency and an actuality, a bevy of implosions, cascading and switching from within; thoughts, currents and streams of second hand ideas are
( After three days of thinking this story out, I've decided to leave it as it is, sorry if you're left hanging. )
Lies, half-truths, misconceptions and narrow sidewinders; tales of story, tales of imagination, tall tales that worried weren’t just words sitting over paper. White transgression over brown, recycled or never used, wrinkled, splashed or covered in ink, the teals are all the same, legal or not. Know your words, their language was ideal, all I could do was wave a hand at gesturing and point, their eyes followed every motion, the sound was not of any importance. Our connection; our attention, our saying to ourselves there is only one worthy truth, consistency and an actuality, a bevy of implosions, cascading and switching from within; thoughts, currents and streams of second hand ideas are
( After three days of thinking this story out, I've decided to leave it as it is, sorry if you're left hanging. )