"Fuck Tetrus"
I'm close to reluctantly conceding with the snake: I should lie down a nothing and let it's venom permeate through my rotting apple core; everywhere I go, every opportunity I search out is skipping rocks against the baby-skull sensitive veneer of a lake in the summer. No luck will come my way…the term "fair" is just another example of Man contorting fairy tales into truth in hopes of comprehension. I tried being a hitch hiker but couldn't keep holding up a thousand pound, futile plea in the air for long; I tried asking for directions but eclectic fingers got crossed and I became utterly lost; I became a gallant loner for as long as a flower can stand up straight in a hurricane; maps looked like they were filled with notations and my spirit imploded. The astern knot in my cranium glares at everyone—even the people I pray will die—with the self-destructive envy at the elegance of their independence—something I feel every one of them takes for granted. Galvanized by jealousy, I reiterate many questions: what the hell am I going to do; am I meant to die a nobody, a miserable mistake of my mother's,; should I just fucking die already? Some days, jello-vibrations of an energetic blackness imbues with the urge to make the latter my solution. They say: "God's the way, the truth, the father whom leads the stupid sheep to paradise!" Then I think to myself: 'Am I the outcast whose wool's a napkin for vultures and jackals? Am I tracing his plan and this trek's a brush running out of paint soon to be covered in a vibrant once again? Or is this an empty canvas with no plan about to be covered with brain matter and arteriole spurts? The thoughts and suspicions, they're making me feel like I'm forgetting to pull the parachute string; like I'm meant to appear exclusively in a booklet along with a collective of admonishments. Am I nothing but a parent's example for babes? If so, hopefully the bursting blood from my pressurized eyes will be the hope for the next in the assembly line's next generation being raised. But then, once again, I cogitate: if the next generation has tantamount struggles to our's, then I'll die a nothing, still. That uncertain hope is tossed out of the window. These options are severely craven, I know; but I can feel Freddy's claws taking my soul, MY VERY SOUL, from my persistent grip! I'm feeling fatigue from failed translations of life's language, the impetus to fill the spaces is nearly gone; and even more lurid visions have now evolved from my mantle-deep depression. The luscious red grass—where many lie—is tricking my lethargic mind; it's conniving while my integrity's out on a jaunt. It may be official…hope's lost—in my eyes—for my raft getting over these waves; I, then, shout out to my designated proxy player in a demented craze, eyes blood shot red from Nyquil-laced coffee: FUCK TETRUS!