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I've had it with the human race.

Submitted:Aug 11, 2012    Reads: 47    Comments: 3    Likes: 3   

Everything is an illusion, gift wrapped in everyone's naive delusions about others.

The real pollution of this world is human tears.

Emotions for everyone.

She looks up at her hero; he eying his secret lover behind the trees and leaves of his secondary thoughts.

Firstly he is preoccupied with covering up his victims eyes with pretty vibrant hues of classical bullshit.



Everything preparing her to someday elaborate a wedding, while her bashful admirer sits discretely in the pews, while the handsome couple recites their bullshit "I-dos".

I want to scream but the point would be moot.

Everyone is dripping, melting in bullshit.

It's almost unbearable to revive the air, all we can inhale are the prescribed fairy tales of couples in love, children in haven.

But we all die alone.

So why even bother with the dutiful act of procreation.

Let's just stop here, our tissues damp, our eyes red with hate.

The stone wall contains us all, cooped up in numbness are the opponents, yet they have a soft spot for destroying and consuming the tender minded.

I only view this all as a hopeless proclamation of the worlds retardation.

I can't keep repeating these scenes.

Kissing the princes that turn into little horny frogs that hop hop away from all that's scathed my heart.

The knife releases the only warmth I have left.

It's bittersweet.

The scar it leaves will define me in each social situation I find myself in, but the pulse I feel now reminds me that the only miraculous thing the universe provides is the act of choice.

I'm exercising mine, in my own precise time, my own original need to fuck up my body.

So we fuck.

The fake passion is enough for me to implode all my imaginary cum on to you and everyone that surrounds us.


Your loves!

Your false adoration for those that suck your cock.

What a fascinating mechanic, the infamous pick up line revised to make us feel like our eyes and vaginas hold a more consistent place in that shriveled up spot a bloody red organ should fit, right in the middle.

Right in the middle of that hairless chest.

So I begin to digress.

My thoughts of a flower covered crown and a white dress have dissipated into the sunless sky, where you begin to lead reign on your army of pricks in training.

A fine job, Mr. Date Me.

Please have a laugh for us all, so someday we might be able to look back and see how funny it was, the exact way you lined us up, and with a quick flick of your finger.

You demolish the long line of conformity.

The faceless girls in every minority, majority, you'll have them in.

Goodbye, my dickish friend.


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