• its your not like me.

    Perfection of what Im not, imperfect is what I consist of, start the shooting so I may feel the shards or reality, needles come through me with the string attached, go through needle, go through the woven piece that you may do it again and again and sew together different pieces, fix our wholes needle, for me must cover what we are, hidden beneath our woven shields of clothing. For naked beauty does not exist amongst us. Life is ours but we live it they’re way, speak without permission but speak what’s okay. Express only what’s the way. Way of living , the living of they’re way. For we cannot be different, Cannot be accept for who we are, just what we are. Secrets , lies , and pains. A pile of living s**t. s**t is what we consist of, for this s**t is what we need to live, this s**t... Organs, muscles, blood, emotions, energy and electricity. It al consist in our so called bags of meat with intelligence. We feed off of the dead, we eat they’re flesh and pretend what we’re doing is okay, because they say its okay, they say it taste good. They say it keeps you from starvation, the one other people experience, so eat , eat it all, stuff your face with other peoples sorrows, for you are fortunate to have this, others do not. Optimistic about the sadness, or is that just the outside. Im tired and broken, my heart inside my hands, Let me out, is it almost over? The walls are caving in and I cant breathe, Im almost out of air.