Time is when a story gets physical. There’s a point of breakthrough in an intellectual’s life where passion becomes cynical. Vision becomes blurred and actions become stereotypical. The one with the sense of the word can dodge madness and keep on track rolling smoothly like thin nickels. Precision is relative with the left hand but this is not the time to get political. Shit don’t change and even less when the feeling is biblical. Difficult to forget but also to expand, and I’m no Jim Mitchell. Manslaughter is a myth, there is no such thing as accidents and if it was meant to happen it was all about chemicals. Sour like dill pickles, your commitment to my cause remains unexplained and my lack of trust is best friends with my fear to share fates with my best mate, honestly I would rather fucking crawl naked to Winnipeg. You’d know these lips are unethical if you tasted but you can not handle them. In a lyrical sense, it’s like doing meth on a cloud while being gazed at by grinning skulls. This will mainly go unnoticed but if you know, you know. Open your mind T, otherwise, it won’t be visible, it’s thinning like Josh Nichols.
The harsh truth is that feelings, like atoms, are indivisible. I know if it had happened it would have been the pinnacle but defeating my pride is even more unlikely than witnessing multiple miracles so it didn’t and now my condition is critical.
“Ayo, Jah!… I got Zeke on the phone, he said it’s good if it doesn’t take long”
“You ungrateful little fuck,
You asked and you received, you cried and were supported, you lied and were believed and yet still no satisfaction was recorded. What else do you want? What else could you receive if you’ll never take that leap of faith needed to reach happiness? No one can walk through the door for you, child. Your deceit didn’t go unnoticed, you are wicked in your heart and pride will lead you to damnation. The scorpion, heir of retribution.
When will you learn that you’ll always be alone in your grief? even if there are good moments the premise remains simple: finish the cigarette, move on, be gone, depart. When will you learn, young prophet? Your gift comes with strings attached, you knew it and accepted it anyways.
Sorrow isn’t a part of the journey, but an indispensable foundation in its structure. Please, do it for the culture, you coward. How are the angels supposed to harmonize if they’re missing their instructor? You know you could’ve had it all, right? You know how but won’t show your sculpture.
You are a refined creature, prophet. Soldier, lover, king… the coward king. What did you have to lose? Why couldn’t you do it? You clearly wanted to.
You’ve pulled the trigger uncountable times, figurately and literally. You’ve done the incredible, the dreadful, the evil but still, when it comes to doing something for yourself… well, you know the rest. I’ve given you every single thing you ask for, placed you with the best possible opportunities that reality allows and what have you done with it? Please, kill the dog that’s been tearing and pissing in the wires in your head. I know nostalgia has been your friend but she’s always been treacherous and you’ve said it yourself, people don’t change.
Accept your fate or change your beliefs, are you going to believe that? Believe that no one will ever do anything for you and if you mean to ask someone if your eyes are open remember there will always be room for lies. But I don’t have to tell you anything about lies, right? After all, that’s your area of expertise.
Don’t beat yourself up too bad though. I know you wanted to do it with all your strengths, they know too. Still, you couldn’t find a way to do what you desired most, even after receiving anything you’d need, you were placed in front of the door but you couldn’t walk across, again.
I hope that grin on your face one day becomes a smile, I really do. Remember you are a leader and you are on a mission. Remember that your assessments are so dark that it’d be good you were wrong every once in a while. Remember you can see things no one can. Remember to keep your eyes open. Do you think hers are open as well? I think she’s at least trying to open them. Don’t keep everyone out, some might help.
Lastly, go fuck yourself, Zeke…”
“where did we go wrong?”
War FairyTales 