Depreciation of ambitions;
almost like down-talking
past achievements and scorching
promises built of fragments
[pieces of lies - a collage of you]
Self-confidence:
often confused with obstinance;
the negative of security
An immature certainty,
vile in its intentions yet
polite at the surface.
And it's as though independence feared
conformity. Consistent attempts to
lacerate existing emotions have failed.
Apathy isn't a feeling.
I told him.
Said that we lived in a world where
if you hesitated to sacrifice integrity
in favor of normal [selfish] circumstances
You won't belong anymore.
I'd have loved to think that he didn't listen
to me, the habitual attitude that is presented
on every appointment. He was too busy for intimacy
so threw sand on footsteps previously walked.
And smiled for the camera.
One would think that facades exist
in little fairy-tales that blatantly lie
to young-aged-innocence.
But apparently everyone is a walking fabrication.
They metaphorically pray for you,
but I'm sure they walk four steps backwards,
call you a bitch and repeat the process to
another. Pity.
Grey-scaled dilemmas that tell of pain
one where if you're not rich, you're in despair
and motivation does not equal to interaction.
Friction seems to be the only drive of success
but they aren't satisfied with one-man-warmth
and so deceive another into believing in affection.
Now, that's the catastrophe.
Chaos and confusion reigns and takes
superior position.
Sorry, I'm contradicting myself again.
Those have underlying placements
as our artificial-first-impression-sentiment
is what overtakes.
We're down to pools to refresh inner-strength
especially if not needed and give tea-cup sized
bathtubs to those feeble and in a lower caste.
Robotic and repetition are not alliterative styles
of dialect - they become fact in this fictitious
world of suppressed self expression.
There's a serial killer out there lurking in the
corner of our minds waiting for the pathetic bit
of creativity and murdering it to shreds.
I second that assassin. What we fail to realize is
that we terminate those ideas ourselves because
we're afraid of distinctiveness. Or we believe
that our brains may not produce to the
imaginary standards. And perhaps they'd
be correct - we mistake genius for bullshit.
Seldom do we have some sort of identity.
It's as if we're an act of plagiarism and the authentic
owner has killed himself by slowly peeling his
eyelids off.
Call me demented, but I second him too.
Silver trophy winner
Gold trophy winner
Adding your comment:
for the person before me 
because HOLY SMOKES, WOMAN! 
