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the collective consciousness really, itís just the same old bitch about how no one wants to be wrong or on the receiving end of the dick. one last breath iíll ever have to take. nearing the photo finish there is nothing sadder than acceptance of second place. a general loss of the will to fight... but, but, donít fight the tide youíll only drown faster. (weíve got monkeyís, people, pets. who/what isnít for my amusement). canít ever be rid of myself, no need to try. where is the logical conclusion when i need it? so much for the glory of the grave... respected strange convolutions in pretty run on heat. baby keep those gums flapping cause your xxx mc donaldís made me fat ass might just be onto another stream of consciousness non-thought. meth? why reinvent the wheel or cocaine? we need more new drugs of a novel origin to expand our minds and collapse our lungs/exploding arteries turn-me-on. itís always a joke till youíre the one on stage suffering a cheap pain. you wonder what happened to mom, god, the meds, friends in reflection always stand behind the mirror. inject substance at will. can you afford to pay off the consequences? burn tissue grown to starve... youíre sleeping with their skulls as pillows. by the way, good luck trying to find an idea/needle in an arm that hasnít already been plunged. justify your stupidity by any means necessary. the monsters who made me... am i a monster like the monsters who made me? a life lead trying to pacify cruelty by passing on the blame to the people who did this or that... suffering a null void. cheap romantics. itís okay to wish you were dead. the feeling is universal. we all agree. we all support the belief that the world is shit and so are you.... as the symphony swells and laughing fat men cry. they are lonely. looking for a blow job wake up call to bring them back to whatever is living. weíre all attuned to sorrow and suffocating under it or maybe thatís just me? one frequency. one smog for all the lungs. one headstone. a revolution from within. fed off of cosmetics. we are love. came from last stands, midnight orgies, to much drugs and mom forgot to take her pill or so thatís the way your father tells it. we are the broken condoms big mistakes. we are love. now go out and learn to fly. use your point to slit your wrist. substance is swaying... real politick: go out and blow up a building, cause itís your choice to either save us or kill us quicker. i stick my finger in half way and get embarrassed. i go home to shut it out. forget. forget. forget. they? nah, nah. itís YOU, you not fucking ďthemĒ who wants so bad to forget. continue on with your behind the back incisions talking a lot because youíre hoping someone else will do something. nothing more dangerous than action without protection... cash, friends, scapegoats to hold hands with when times are bad. itís okay. i too want to die fast, painlessly.
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