Running feels more natural when your eyes are closed, lying is easiest under pressure, and sucking it up is easier than letting it all out. The fundamental principles of truth are often concealed by the consequences of the disciple you are being lied to. The purpose of a message is to deliver meaning, yet we speak freely, as if we know the depth of our own tongues.
Once we fasten our lips and plunge our ears, they will teach me how to become free.
What was once my soft spot, my Mount Everest, the hill I would die on, is now nothing but a screeching blight. The rooster that crows at Six Ante Meridiem, reduced and defiled to a haunting for the unrest that follows. The cushioning blasting lust, greed, and envy into the canvas that is the canals of my soul, now something I neither appreciate nor desire. Things of such I have once adorned, now become something of the fiction that is truth unbridled.
A monument carved into the shape of a bottom root, two curves, and a dip in the middle is more often found with a crater in its center, than it is whole, and red. And this sensation that is truth unbridled is whispered, and glutted with misconceptions and wretchedness. Once you’ve gone through the horrid slumber Post Meridiem, what was spoken without your discern is pressured and set to slam into your two front teeth, leaving you vulnerable for what was previously established as intemperate.
But, at some point, I should digress. To gouge out my own tongue and swallow it whole, displacing any further communications within the universal limbic system. Destroying its interconnectedness.
Once the yellow circle with that black check mark has been tapped, I doze off into thought of the intermittent light switch. For the memories I have fought to slaughter, the secrets I’ve pleaded to gut, the necessities that are my tangible possessions, they have been stripped of me. For the love of my life, I shall rest my case.
Once we fasten our lips and plunge our ears, they will teach me how to become free.
What was once my soft spot, my Mount Everest, the hill I would die on, is now nothing but a screeching blight. The rooster that crows at Six Ante Meridiem, reduced and defiled to a haunting for the unrest that follows. The cushioning blasting lust, greed, and envy into the canvas that is the canals of my soul, now something I neither appreciate nor desire. Things of such I have once adorned, now become something of the fiction that is truth unbridled.
A monument carved into the shape of a bottom root, two curves, and a dip in the middle is more often found with a crater in its center, than it is whole, and red. And this sensation that is truth unbridled is whispered, and glutted with misconceptions and wretchedness. Once you’ve gone through the horrid slumber Post Meridiem, what was spoken without your discern is pressured and set to slam into your two front teeth, leaving you vulnerable for what was previously established as intemperate.
But, at some point, I should digress. To gouge out my own tongue and swallow it whole, displacing any further communications within the universal limbic system. Destroying its interconnectedness.
Once the yellow circle with that black check mark has been tapped, I doze off into thought of the intermittent light switch. For the memories I have fought to slaughter, the secrets I’ve pleaded to gut, the necessities that are my tangible possessions, they have been stripped of me. For the love of my life, I shall rest my case.
