All aboard the train of thought!
One of the most infuriating situations would have to be the incapability of deciphering an unspecified emotion.
With the turning of a thousand pages, give or take a few, the descriptive scribbles do not suffice for genuine feeling.
It's just a series of failed attempts. Once the A's fail then the B's fail, etc., etc., etc.
They sum things up in the shallowest of manners.
Scribbles, you are technical and detailed but your technicalities make you predictable. Where are your hidden truths, your deeper meaning?
They are just words and there will never be enough of them in order to fulfill their primary task.
Alone, they are nothing, bunched together in categories they remain nothing.
They are fakes.
There's an uneasy feeling residing in my system that has worn out its welcome.
Even when a smile is stretched from ear to ear it creeps and seeps around the corners and through the cracks and I can't seem to shake it.
As many times as I have tried I've never been able to overcome that slimy, leech like feeling that's grabbed hold of me.
It makes me queasy, like a nightmare or a bad adrenaline rush.
Kind of like when you get butterflies in your stomach, but Dem butterflies iz pissed.
It's rush hour, and they are racing through my veins at hyper-speed.
Their petite, vibrant wings have become a blur morphing together as they pass.
The excellent colors enthrall me, trying to keep an eye on their every move so I surely won't miss anything.
They're not pleased to be there though. They are tired and this never ending labyrinth confuses them.
Soon enough they are killed off one by one.
Their excessively high velocity turns them to dust eventually and the dust is blown into a neat, smooth pile which is reincarnated into an elephant made of magenta colored steel.
The weight of this extraordinary elephant crushes all of humanity and causes the earth to collapse, going out with a bang the same way we came in.
With the turning of a thousand pages, give or take a few, the descriptive scribbles do not suffice for genuine feeling.
It's just a series of failed attempts. Once the A's fail then the B's fail, etc., etc., etc.
They sum things up in the shallowest of manners.
Scribbles, you are technical and detailed but your technicalities make you predictable. Where are your hidden truths, your deeper meaning?
They are just words and there will never be enough of them in order to fulfill their primary task.
Alone, they are nothing, bunched together in categories they remain nothing.
They are fakes.
There's an uneasy feeling residing in my system that has worn out its welcome.
Even when a smile is stretched from ear to ear it creeps and seeps around the corners and through the cracks and I can't seem to shake it.
As many times as I have tried I've never been able to overcome that slimy, leech like feeling that's grabbed hold of me.
It makes me queasy, like a nightmare or a bad adrenaline rush.
Kind of like when you get butterflies in your stomach, but Dem butterflies iz pissed.
It's rush hour, and they are racing through my veins at hyper-speed.
Their petite, vibrant wings have become a blur morphing together as they pass.
The excellent colors enthrall me, trying to keep an eye on their every move so I surely won't miss anything.
They're not pleased to be there though. They are tired and this never ending labyrinth confuses them.
Soon enough they are killed off one by one.
Their excessively high velocity turns them to dust eventually and the dust is blown into a neat, smooth pile which is reincarnated into an elephant made of magenta colored steel.
The weight of this extraordinary elephant crushes all of humanity and causes the earth to collapse, going out with a bang the same way we came in.