Dead & Beaten Pale Horse.
4/28/04
Over-analyzing their reactions again
reading too deeply into all of this
you'll fight for freedom, privacy and
individuality on to your death
but here you stand with your subtle
manipulations, just trying to
peer inside their heads.
You hypocrite.
You contradiction.
Just kill the instinct with
your own free will beneath your wing
disconnect the lines between
you and the herd.
For as of now you
sleep and dream to escape,
write and read to survive,
lust just to feel the
distance of life, you
drink and drown in
this tireless ignorance.
Silent screams release
the pent-up ceaseless
streams of intensity.
You are merely a
nihilist mourning the
ongoing slaughter of
your illusions, fully aware
that the knife and blood
is in your hands, certain
that there must be something deeper
some ultimate core just waiting,
a something that's been calling
beneath this apparent ground of
lack you've found at your
deepest depths.
Refusing to believe
you weren't meant to understand,
that you'll never be able
to comprehend
one damned shred
of this mystery
suffocating you.
Flip the bird
at the window to find
a transparent, bitter shit
flipping the bird right back,
his mouth mocking you in synch
with your heated words as you say:
Damn you and all
the hope you've stolen.
Damn you and the
dead and beaten
pale horse
you rode in on.
And you sit back
kick back
relax
and write another self-
depreciating yet
narcissistic poem,
reflecting on how this
has all become so
absurd.
So fucking,
bloody
absurd.
4/28/04
Over-analyzing their reactions again
reading too deeply into all of this
you'll fight for freedom, privacy and
individuality on to your death
but here you stand with your subtle
manipulations, just trying to
peer inside their heads.
You hypocrite.
You contradiction.
Just kill the instinct with
your own free will beneath your wing
disconnect the lines between
you and the herd.
For as of now you
sleep and dream to escape,
write and read to survive,
lust just to feel the
distance of life, you
drink and drown in
this tireless ignorance.
Silent screams release
the pent-up ceaseless
streams of intensity.
You are merely a
nihilist mourning the
ongoing slaughter of
your illusions, fully aware
that the knife and blood
is in your hands, certain
that there must be something deeper
some ultimate core just waiting,
a something that's been calling
beneath this apparent ground of
lack you've found at your
deepest depths.
Refusing to believe
you weren't meant to understand,
that you'll never be able
to comprehend
one damned shred
of this mystery
suffocating you.
Flip the bird
at the window to find
a transparent, bitter shit
flipping the bird right back,
his mouth mocking you in synch
with your heated words as you say:
Damn you and all
the hope you've stolen.
Damn you and the
dead and beaten
pale horse
you rode in on.
And you sit back
kick back
relax
and write another self-
depreciating yet
narcissistic poem,
reflecting on how this
has all become so
absurd.
So fucking,
bloody
absurd.
