Waiting for Godot...
Vladimir and Estragon... the two personalities of the real world, of reality. The pessimist and the optimist. All flailing around in our societies plaguing our mind, and yet bringing the balance that makes this ironic world go round. In circles and circles we go, that's the we well always flow.
We are all alone, and yet we try to find meaning in words. Again, the message between the lines. Meanings for our perils. Death must be all too easy, for life... Life is truly the [hard] part. In times of complication the lines become blurry, and it becomes confusing which side one is fighting for. Isn't it all ironic... irony irony. bpfaht. A whirling cycle of stupidity. The answers I seek ar ewithin the room with a thousand locks. One by one, unlocking, unraveling each secret. The key is never in reach of the one who is searching but always in the non believer....
And so we wait for Godot. Godin. godet... Why do you trouble me so? Not Godot, but you. My faith lies within, beneath the sin, past the terrorism. Standard perpitude of course. Flames are never eternal, yet they consume what is under their grasp, These flames flickering and floating, away, catching the moths within their grasps and releasing them. It means a lot that you have tried, its the thought that counts. Why, the glares and burnign stares that shatter windows in the vicinity. The earth shaking foot steps, that if you wanted to... you easily could. It is within your power to end it. Ahh we speak of it again. I approach matters on my own, and in my own style, who are you to criticize how I will go? Jack was nimble and Jack was quick... I will proceed on my own over my candle stick.
The supremes that reign highly above, while the wretched deserts seathe below. Always connecting two and two together. Two and Two = four. but what's more is the passing course that has been taken. Five, the network in which i contrive my information. Six, in hopes that grasping and never taking risks with these holy sticks. Seven, ahhh... can't we all go to heaven. No more shall i go up, no number fair and below should be bestwoed the bog of eternal stench. woooooooo what a turn of events....
When will a warning come?
We are all alone, and yet we try to find meaning in words. Again, the message between the lines. Meanings for our perils. Death must be all too easy, for life... Life is truly the [hard] part. In times of complication the lines become blurry, and it becomes confusing which side one is fighting for. Isn't it all ironic... irony irony. bpfaht. A whirling cycle of stupidity. The answers I seek ar ewithin the room with a thousand locks. One by one, unlocking, unraveling each secret. The key is never in reach of the one who is searching but always in the non believer....
And so we wait for Godot. Godin. godet... Why do you trouble me so? Not Godot, but you. My faith lies within, beneath the sin, past the terrorism. Standard perpitude of course. Flames are never eternal, yet they consume what is under their grasp, These flames flickering and floating, away, catching the moths within their grasps and releasing them. It means a lot that you have tried, its the thought that counts. Why, the glares and burnign stares that shatter windows in the vicinity. The earth shaking foot steps, that if you wanted to... you easily could. It is within your power to end it. Ahh we speak of it again. I approach matters on my own, and in my own style, who are you to criticize how I will go? Jack was nimble and Jack was quick... I will proceed on my own over my candle stick.
The supremes that reign highly above, while the wretched deserts seathe below. Always connecting two and two together. Two and Two = four. but what's more is the passing course that has been taken. Five, the network in which i contrive my information. Six, in hopes that grasping and never taking risks with these holy sticks. Seven, ahhh... can't we all go to heaven. No more shall i go up, no number fair and below should be bestwoed the bog of eternal stench. woooooooo what a turn of events....
When will a warning come?