Our invisible thorn

ebbed in like a blade of grass who's motion is dictated by the footsteps of above forcing it's motion.
Ascetic ideas to inspire silly me. To be the single sided mammal could be considered prodigy.
So says the preacher.
Line and fences are the way of the "good". Our commanders tell us which is which and how-to's from the start.
So the lies are assembled like a pack of wolves with an intention to properly guide the herd of lost sheep. although conservation is what drives the sharp-toothed beasts, havoc is all that is wreaked.
And that is where we stand.
With love as our instilled passion
Compromise will rise.
Right past the line we drew for ourselves so very long ago.
this is sin?
So says the preacher.

Sense.

"How many have you had?"

"two." I lied

"Are you trying to kill yourself?"

"Perhaps."

"Thats not gonna do the job."

"I am ignorantly hoping otherwise."

"You don't look so well."

"I don't have health insurance, so what ever you do don't call 911"

"Thats not even funny... seriously you look like your gonna puke"

"I just need to lie down"
He was right, I puked. I could see one of the pills I swallowed earlier swimming in my regurgitation

"Please don't tell her the truth." And then I died.
not to say that he didn't heed my advice.
911 was dialed, they even tried to pump my stomach.
I was proclaimed dead two hours after my heart stopped beating. I wonder if true suicide is not when you pull the trigger, but instead when you decide not to wake up again. after seeing death and deciding that this was a much safer place than your previous residence.
I can't say that I am completely satisfied with my decision for an abnormal life leading an unremembered death, but control was all i ever wanted in life, even if I had to kill myself to prove it.
"Monday's were never good for me anyway."

God makes better lemonade than you.

declined by the fake idea of the apophasis which generally discludes my rendition on life.

in simpler words.

my life sucks.

I feel divided by this ever-tugging battle that is growing to become a war against my relationships with people. I have always been so experienced at hiding away the battle torn, withered man that constantly rages against himself. Derived from reason or rhyme I am slowly striped of dignity, respect, and most of all loyalty and trust in my efforts to understand my inner being. Is this wrong? God, in my effort to obtain you I am repeatedly beaten down by the same force that I find to be secure. I want to be that man with no blanket to hold to, no worldly security to hide under. I want my relationship with you, God, to be free from restriction. Yet here I stand unable to feel your covering, your protection, so constantly I am wrestling with everyone and and everything around me, holding on to the belief that this war, some how, some way, brings my mind into a closer connection with yours. But the emotion and discontent settling like butterflies inside, begs to differ.
What am I to do?

the feud

Concentrated in the form of orange juice, sliding smoothly down what we call the outrageous sets of exaggeration. Let it drop sip the drink, hit the boy with the plague so he stops in his feet. lacking skill and beat. all alone in a crowd, crying endlessly for a drink hoping to sink into the mortal past of which he so lovingly desired. Where the heart lived on a swing, swishing happily with a dame who sought greedily for passage into a door which did not exist in her opinion anyway. When broken, the silly boy would seek out his heart in the gravestones of its lovers. Lacking wisdom and security he held to the names lying still below the now grass covered domes of dirt and bones. His last thought which slurred slowly through his mind was pondered for a few. Still wondering if death were the answer for his feud. Such a name to be held higher than a king. Such a man to be loved in an unordained sort of passion and when this happens, the lights dim low and the chests beat fast in a corresponding rhythm to a song both knew all to well for such a young age. But when plastic fails and pharmacuetics lie only you will hold the key to life. such a desire placed in the unprepared. But nobody likes the pulp in orange juice anyway

The broken wings of a butterfly

twisting down into some sort of transcending version of polly pocket girls with musked up toys and long brown bangs.
Breaking bulbs scream for news. Lacking on such terms of which the crowd demands. Flustered by the noise and lights, bitten by the sting of night, rampaged into pulchritude. Fist fights claiming front page news fighting fires and politicians for today's top line. I'm a man who fights violence using fists of blood and skin to make my mark into your chin. beckoned by the media for attention to spur a thought within. Clinging to it's every word grasping for a meaning. hope can be deluded with a dreaded sort of state. fear of failure motivates. Dear loved ones, I cannot exist, for where I place my solid feet contradicts the world and all of its ill-beliefs. Man and woman live today, man and man live today. existence threatens morals.

Believe in what you're fighting for.