fear and tumbling
Funny feelings are stirring around my gut.
no. it's not gas.
This place has an interesting way about it that seems to manifest somewhere between the pooper and the food processor.
red brick buildings appear perminent enough to me.
It has that black friday frenzy air about it. A maddening rush to gobble up all the material pleasure in aisles three, five, and seven, the gratifying experience felt the whole, half hour drive home.
three weeks later seems a life time.
Slaves to their impulses, like coiled springs they burst forth, dead reckoning, having never been held at bay by a trigger or hook.
is that natural?
What I mean is, like those presious sale items, their purchase a matter of life and death, this place has the same ephmeral feelings of accomplishment.
the buildings are so sturdy and welcoming, beckoning the thespians in from stage left.
The buildings sure seem sound enough at a glance, then you circle around and see the skeletal planks keeping the facade upright.
actors giggling and whispering lines, while those finish remove sweaty wigs with flair.
Than there are the living dead staggering, with great performance, about the down town area with the utmost confidence in the two dimensional stage.
the dead unaware of their death.
They seem to comply with some universal slogan, some idea that they follow the guidelines according to the perfect and good life.
they prefer the security provided by the layers of dirt above their physical bodies.
They adhere to this established track in spite of the fact that the majority of performers willingly derail themselves from it with happy enthusiasm.
schedule to keep, must'nt miss their savior's heavenly return to reclaim the dead.
Who among this population stands swaying over the passion they've been committed to while gripping a knife, waiting for the thumbs up?
who has the courage to think or the responsibility to act?
Choose to Either tumble outta here, get on track and stay, Or take some sort of leap of faith, with no religious inclinations.
fail, my friend, and I'll laugh.
no. it's not gas.
This place has an interesting way about it that seems to manifest somewhere between the pooper and the food processor.
red brick buildings appear perminent enough to me.
It has that black friday frenzy air about it. A maddening rush to gobble up all the material pleasure in aisles three, five, and seven, the gratifying experience felt the whole, half hour drive home.
three weeks later seems a life time.
Slaves to their impulses, like coiled springs they burst forth, dead reckoning, having never been held at bay by a trigger or hook.
is that natural?
What I mean is, like those presious sale items, their purchase a matter of life and death, this place has the same ephmeral feelings of accomplishment.
the buildings are so sturdy and welcoming, beckoning the thespians in from stage left.
The buildings sure seem sound enough at a glance, then you circle around and see the skeletal planks keeping the facade upright.
actors giggling and whispering lines, while those finish remove sweaty wigs with flair.
Than there are the living dead staggering, with great performance, about the down town area with the utmost confidence in the two dimensional stage.
the dead unaware of their death.
They seem to comply with some universal slogan, some idea that they follow the guidelines according to the perfect and good life.
they prefer the security provided by the layers of dirt above their physical bodies.
They adhere to this established track in spite of the fact that the majority of performers willingly derail themselves from it with happy enthusiasm.
schedule to keep, must'nt miss their savior's heavenly return to reclaim the dead.
Who among this population stands swaying over the passion they've been committed to while gripping a knife, waiting for the thumbs up?
who has the courage to think or the responsibility to act?
Choose to Either tumble outta here, get on track and stay, Or take some sort of leap of faith, with no religious inclinations.
fail, my friend, and I'll laugh.