manuscriptx
New Member
There won't be another sunrise in the coming months. There won't be those annoying little brats in the background. There won't be another moon that will rise over the valley as we lay over tables and chairs. Nothing can ever again harm us. We won't be fairy tales told by misers and voice activated dinner jackets with 'Hugh Hefner' written on it.
There won't be that dirty bird that flies against the breeze and while some will only wonder; its wings do reach the sky from top to bottom. Some will wonder whether there are birds that sing. Birds that fly over free air that the spiritual human can sometimes misinterpret. They always feel pain. They always will imagine themselves dying or crossing the plane from hell to human and spatter at the footsteps of the autonomous lone soldier. Caesar once said that the greatest imperfection against man was his self-less loathing; his magnanimous and pretension; towards the ones that stood for something; plenty besides themselves like peace. We were fools and that his was the last warning. He couldn't understand the cost. He knew he had sex and would betray anyone without a conscience. The pleasure in swallowing their own sense of helplessness and fear. In a lot of ways life was boring for those that had something beyond a brain. A caution to use it and you were as guilty as the four legged soldiers with lion's manes; sharp teeth and a menacing grin. You know that throbbing you get when you lean your head over to one side on your arm? I can only take advantage and bargain with what I do not yet have. A spiritual liar, a faker, someone to tell me that the most common intentions are meant for everyone. I am a lot like what I imagine; indifferent, taken to task by my own suffering. I am the mineral at the bottom of a gully. December burns.
There won't be that dirty bird that flies against the breeze and while some will only wonder; its wings do reach the sky from top to bottom. Some will wonder whether there are birds that sing. Birds that fly over free air that the spiritual human can sometimes misinterpret. They always feel pain. They always will imagine themselves dying or crossing the plane from hell to human and spatter at the footsteps of the autonomous lone soldier. Caesar once said that the greatest imperfection against man was his self-less loathing; his magnanimous and pretension; towards the ones that stood for something; plenty besides themselves like peace. We were fools and that his was the last warning. He couldn't understand the cost. He knew he had sex and would betray anyone without a conscience. The pleasure in swallowing their own sense of helplessness and fear. In a lot of ways life was boring for those that had something beyond a brain. A caution to use it and you were as guilty as the four legged soldiers with lion's manes; sharp teeth and a menacing grin. You know that throbbing you get when you lean your head over to one side on your arm? I can only take advantage and bargain with what I do not yet have. A spiritual liar, a faker, someone to tell me that the most common intentions are meant for everyone. I am a lot like what I imagine; indifferent, taken to task by my own suffering. I am the mineral at the bottom of a gully. December burns.