Link to original post: More words from my head.
What a delightful depression. Anxious anticipation for accepting rejection and rejecting acception
Allowing the failure to come right forth only to send it back to whence it came, pitiful lame.
15 seconds of fame, playing nothing but the blame game on fortuitous failure falling from hell's sky delivered to the angel's below. Demons above, an ironic iron statement bent the bent by the blow of the wind. Delectable sin, sharp as a dolphin fin, cut through like a cold plastic knife to hot butter. Melt the utensil, write with a pencil, not a pen, draw out of the stencil, detail out the box, leave everything inside all for naught. It's not worth it. Nothing to recover wanted no other to discover the hover. The float. The flight. The Lift. The Plane. To take you inside to discover the name of the one who isnt me, its an opposite of me, a glorious asshole whos methodology is to deliver a peaceful pain in the form of dry rain, wet sunshine, no having a grand time. An enjoyable sadness to fill outside and hole the in. It's the opposite of the Original Sin. To birth is to repent, and to prey is to sin. Devil birth the God, brought life to his kin. It's a pitiful party pour pools of pretty perky pep, pushing the pistons pumping until in position to receive death to live to live to die to live to lie to keep the truth by replacing the truth with another truth, its a metaphor for a roof, as statements are a bunch of tiles, one over the other, tile over tile, it starts with to be covered by another and you can only see what's on the very top until you notice the spot that is the not. To pull from the top to get to the bottom is really climbing out from the bottom to get to the top. To dive into the air to break out into the water. Everything is not what it seems....
It's an oxymoron. Kinda. Whatever.
What a delightful depression. Anxious anticipation for accepting rejection and rejecting acception
Allowing the failure to come right forth only to send it back to whence it came, pitiful lame.
15 seconds of fame, playing nothing but the blame game on fortuitous failure falling from hell's sky delivered to the angel's below. Demons above, an ironic iron statement bent the bent by the blow of the wind. Delectable sin, sharp as a dolphin fin, cut through like a cold plastic knife to hot butter. Melt the utensil, write with a pencil, not a pen, draw out of the stencil, detail out the box, leave everything inside all for naught. It's not worth it. Nothing to recover wanted no other to discover the hover. The float. The flight. The Lift. The Plane. To take you inside to discover the name of the one who isnt me, its an opposite of me, a glorious asshole whos methodology is to deliver a peaceful pain in the form of dry rain, wet sunshine, no having a grand time. An enjoyable sadness to fill outside and hole the in. It's the opposite of the Original Sin. To birth is to repent, and to prey is to sin. Devil birth the God, brought life to his kin. It's a pitiful party pour pools of pretty perky pep, pushing the pistons pumping until in position to receive death to live to live to die to live to lie to keep the truth by replacing the truth with another truth, its a metaphor for a roof, as statements are a bunch of tiles, one over the other, tile over tile, it starts with to be covered by another and you can only see what's on the very top until you notice the spot that is the not. To pull from the top to get to the bottom is really climbing out from the bottom to get to the top. To dive into the air to break out into the water. Everything is not what it seems....
It's an oxymoron. Kinda. Whatever.
