when machines send messages
U know ur beyond paranoid when a left vacuum cleaner is an object of mockery and judgement... When it utters not a sound but it speaks of ur failure. Sure u showered, dressed and fed 4 hungry, non compliant ladies... But didja vacuum??
They put it there 2 show me that even w all I've done, I haven't done enough.
When appliances and machines r msgs 2 u, u know ur near mad.
But because u know ur neurotic and even tho u worry 2 death that the vac is telling the truth, u understand that its just ur worry... Ur low self esteem... Ur fear of rejection, failure, and even success is what gives voice 2 silent machines, ur not truly mad...
Ur not crazy in the clinical and legal sense and so u can relax, perhaps... But ur mad in the worst sense... The kind that can't be medicated away... The kind that isn't a fuck up of neurons and genes- a place of no fault... But ur screwed cuz ur mad in the sense that u fell down in2 a well or rabbit hole and u can't get out... Ur equipped to but u don't know it. Ur soul is more a hole... A long hallway; a sieve... Ur hope is sand and uve just been told that its up 2 u 2 build ur own dunes... That its ur person that's been broken, not ur brain. That somewhere along the line someone let u down or hurt u... So as u sit trying 2 ignore the neurotic sounds of machines, u r forced 2 remember that u got here because someone fucked u... And that u can only get out if u shut ur legs to their attack.
And therefore u must battle against the machines, the lies of ur fear, the past that fucked you AND your present desire 2 just collapse and play victim. You must rise up, unplug that satanic machine, remove its bag and flush the dirt within. No pill could ever open a closet door and stow away shitty evil machines... U must.
There's no bed rest and chemo 4 this cancer. There are no colored bands or ribbons around wrists or upon cars. No one even wants 2 admit that they 2 have their own vaccum demons and they sure as hell won't help u fight urs.
They rnt evil, just in denial and the more u remind them of their talking appliances, the more they wana cage u and hide u away. They wana write trite books that tell u 2 buck up, try yoga or talk 2 buddha... They don't want 2 admit what u don't want 2 admit...
That the machines r talking... That the signs are there for them too.. And so u suffer further in isolation and shame wondering why ur fuckin vaccum is so much louder than theirs...
How they can sit thru pedicures without hearing the files giggle in korean.
How they can go 2 bars and find dates while u sit tense at the corner seat struggling 2 avoid the gaze of the tap... The whispers from the amps... The cackle of high heels clicks.
... And the gaze of the vaccum that sits near the cover bands stage...
They put it there 2 show me that even w all I've done, I haven't done enough.
When appliances and machines r msgs 2 u, u know ur near mad.
But because u know ur neurotic and even tho u worry 2 death that the vac is telling the truth, u understand that its just ur worry... Ur low self esteem... Ur fear of rejection, failure, and even success is what gives voice 2 silent machines, ur not truly mad...
Ur not crazy in the clinical and legal sense and so u can relax, perhaps... But ur mad in the worst sense... The kind that can't be medicated away... The kind that isn't a fuck up of neurons and genes- a place of no fault... But ur screwed cuz ur mad in the sense that u fell down in2 a well or rabbit hole and u can't get out... Ur equipped to but u don't know it. Ur soul is more a hole... A long hallway; a sieve... Ur hope is sand and uve just been told that its up 2 u 2 build ur own dunes... That its ur person that's been broken, not ur brain. That somewhere along the line someone let u down or hurt u... So as u sit trying 2 ignore the neurotic sounds of machines, u r forced 2 remember that u got here because someone fucked u... And that u can only get out if u shut ur legs to their attack.
And therefore u must battle against the machines, the lies of ur fear, the past that fucked you AND your present desire 2 just collapse and play victim. You must rise up, unplug that satanic machine, remove its bag and flush the dirt within. No pill could ever open a closet door and stow away shitty evil machines... U must.
There's no bed rest and chemo 4 this cancer. There are no colored bands or ribbons around wrists or upon cars. No one even wants 2 admit that they 2 have their own vaccum demons and they sure as hell won't help u fight urs.
They rnt evil, just in denial and the more u remind them of their talking appliances, the more they wana cage u and hide u away. They wana write trite books that tell u 2 buck up, try yoga or talk 2 buddha... They don't want 2 admit what u don't want 2 admit...
That the machines r talking... That the signs are there for them too.. And so u suffer further in isolation and shame wondering why ur fuckin vaccum is so much louder than theirs...
How they can sit thru pedicures without hearing the files giggle in korean.
How they can go 2 bars and find dates while u sit tense at the corner seat struggling 2 avoid the gaze of the tap... The whispers from the amps... The cackle of high heels clicks.
... And the gaze of the vaccum that sits near the cover bands stage...