No Cure for Cancer
I am cancer. I am that tiny fragment of coding that doesn't belong. I will replicate and rebuild without ever intending it. The pieces of me that resemble normalcy is a mirage and I got inside your thoughts as easily as I entered past your first line to the marrow where we all began. Toxicity. Tragedy to follow and I can't stop.
Everything turns to shit. Every intention, every promise, every word is a technique. So damaged and soon you will be too. The world won't know what hit em until its too late. Every soul will wave and ache with shame and pain as I penetrate the purity and fuck it all up. A cycle lives on in me and as I pursue eudaimonia, with syzygy effect, a trail of bodies leave the trace of my comings and I push forth towards new souls and new stains.
I want to be free from my catastrophic parameter of poison. I want to be fixed from my fear of failure. I want nothing more than to be normal. I'd ask God to take away my gifts and allow me the process of well being but I haven't talked to it in so long that the words I so craft would fall on deaf ears or my tared lungs would fever and fry the breath it'd take for graveling.
Where life has brought my body to is solitude and a frantic blotting of ink, a multitude of figures to broad to break down. So instead I break down. Under the choices, morality, values, and self persuasion. Self sabotaging all of the good to make way for heart ache, my natural place. An artist can't write without inspiration from devastation. Sure he may have a few love pieces but when I flake apart into shavings and blizzard about in search of paper, the true works of art become a part of this waking and walking earth. It transcend two planes and in plain sight, I write...
She lost her interest and entertains me little. She's done with my words and so I've turned another one. Where did the cracks commence the sharing plate and pull away to give space for emptiness? Was my love inadequate or did my force for failure flaw yet another conquest? She used to lust over my hugs and swell for her praises and sadly, its gone, all my hard served behaviors.
He'd touch me and deep in his blues did I see it. A flicker, a light to stir my insides and assure me he's taken. But just like the earth does quiver and quake, the grounds below and between us gravitate east and west. My eye-sight so poor, I rely more on memories of where we used to stand. He and his eyes seem so different. So hard like a stone lacking its luster and with no instructions of how to polish, revive, and renew.
Her self-serving steps stage her success that can't last and I enable through rules and games of her creation. I want her to change into the image of effort and compassion but the story replays. I can't help her when I can't help myself and yet I crave her affection and influenced response.
You use them for means instead of for ends and yet you still write the message that cannot be read. The lines in the middle speak volumes of truth, its not what you say, its not what you meant, but its all what you do. Now indeed you is I, a metacognitive view cause its easier to hate me if the me was really you.
Everything turns to shit. Every intention, every promise, every word is a technique. So damaged and soon you will be too. The world won't know what hit em until its too late. Every soul will wave and ache with shame and pain as I penetrate the purity and fuck it all up. A cycle lives on in me and as I pursue eudaimonia, with syzygy effect, a trail of bodies leave the trace of my comings and I push forth towards new souls and new stains.
I want to be free from my catastrophic parameter of poison. I want to be fixed from my fear of failure. I want nothing more than to be normal. I'd ask God to take away my gifts and allow me the process of well being but I haven't talked to it in so long that the words I so craft would fall on deaf ears or my tared lungs would fever and fry the breath it'd take for graveling.
Where life has brought my body to is solitude and a frantic blotting of ink, a multitude of figures to broad to break down. So instead I break down. Under the choices, morality, values, and self persuasion. Self sabotaging all of the good to make way for heart ache, my natural place. An artist can't write without inspiration from devastation. Sure he may have a few love pieces but when I flake apart into shavings and blizzard about in search of paper, the true works of art become a part of this waking and walking earth. It transcend two planes and in plain sight, I write...
She lost her interest and entertains me little. She's done with my words and so I've turned another one. Where did the cracks commence the sharing plate and pull away to give space for emptiness? Was my love inadequate or did my force for failure flaw yet another conquest? She used to lust over my hugs and swell for her praises and sadly, its gone, all my hard served behaviors.
He'd touch me and deep in his blues did I see it. A flicker, a light to stir my insides and assure me he's taken. But just like the earth does quiver and quake, the grounds below and between us gravitate east and west. My eye-sight so poor, I rely more on memories of where we used to stand. He and his eyes seem so different. So hard like a stone lacking its luster and with no instructions of how to polish, revive, and renew.
Her self-serving steps stage her success that can't last and I enable through rules and games of her creation. I want her to change into the image of effort and compassion but the story replays. I can't help her when I can't help myself and yet I crave her affection and influenced response.
You use them for means instead of for ends and yet you still write the message that cannot be read. The lines in the middle speak volumes of truth, its not what you say, its not what you meant, but its all what you do. Now indeed you is I, a metacognitive view cause its easier to hate me if the me was really you.
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