All my chemical connections...all ripped out at their weakest points...have spewed dry the moving fluid of life and energy they once contained.
The sun had taken its toll years ago, but those magazines, bright tubes, flashing screens...convince you on and on that you are not and never shall be the beauty of these things.
Surely these things are not people.
But to the youth, these are Jesus. A built up faux religion for masses of desperate minded midwesterners in Somewhere'stownship, MI. A plastic farce built to muddle the mind, taint the heart, as an omnipresence, deeply severing the chords of nature, pride and outward energy.
Diverting lines, tearing them to shreds.
A shit summer storm that has the whole town locked down...and silent.
We all can be sick.
We all have a blackened love affair...kissing at the gnawings of our own pain. Let us recapture the nature of this "death by night" love.
Let us rip it from the hands of a falsity, of a dream, a poorly conceived money scheme, an unbelievably cheap, sad excuse for art. Recapture your pain, your self-consciousness, your misery, your loneliness, your inability to love, your unsatisfactory words, and the pains of the relationships you'll never have or never had the chance to fix. Let me run my own ship ashore. And I'll empathetically watch you misguide yours.
Break apart these roads and let me find the cliffs. Your warnings have worn out their welcome.
Don't you feel like it's all too safe? Too white. Too neutral. Too referenced and....far too late.
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