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perfectly chaotic
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A transparent sort of knowledge is not that of which today I write.
In lieu of this all I will offer is a mere print.
Mind yourself enough to realize this looks nothing like hollow edges my knives, with their might,
did carve from the rubber, but rather an old smear of ink covered now with dust and lint.
Oh, the beautiful blaze of the fire all started from mere flint.
Watch the embers as they rise with the wind to burn down my very home.
With nowhere to run, it seems a shame that I continue to put up this fight,
this tryannical need to hold to some tragedy, so I roam and I roam,
And I find myself back at the same place, a new car crash has left me to seek what is right.
It seems so potent, so real, so hollow, so fake, I strangle myself with all my might.
A dance around the truth of it all, unable to find solace within my words,
unable to find get back to the start or reach the end,
Every letter like one note, each phrase a part of a ballad, a chord
in a refrain from just letting it all out so I can once again fend
for myself, to start over again, to create and destroy, to tear down and mend
Mend, mend, mend, mend. Why do I continue to pretend?
This is not the first time I have locked myself away and given up my keys
to our state's institutions, how do I fend?
How do I fend for my freedom yet again?
No longer can I pretend that this is fin, the end.
Vive le fin mourir, extremus mortis.
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