Cognition is clogged,
of everything that seems full
half seems to have withdrawn,
from the realm of factual.
An inner tornado of perception
melts away into a fecal matter,
pushed through an inconsistent anus.
Pushed through as actions of suffocated,
constricted and cramped desires
Man, that shit is heavy….
As such my personal inner violence is defined.
Pleasure is within the spectrum of pain.
It is such that it often fails to register within my vision.
Thus, these nicotine stained teeth grind.
Who is really real ? or could it be that its me that who is fake,
I detach myself from the sheet every morning,
in close proximity of getting wrapped in it each day all over again.
This sphere of madness is ever spinning
Who seems the the most clueless is ever winning,
There’s too many of these to imitate,Just too many.