Office Space

I put the needle in my own arm. 

Take the pills at my own free will. 

The drink that never keeps my thirst at bay. 

My brain and it's oward decay has now dug further inside the mechanics that prevent me from going manic. 

I might as well be operating with buttons and triggers, a child's hand reaching, conducting the fine mechanism like an antagonizing orchestra of shit filled sound. 

I'm ready to scream and allow my body and mind to dissipate it all. 

But the continuation of life persists. 

The people shout, the consumer the biggest clown. 

I'm ready for everything to take on a more earthly feel. 

Everything is sky scrapers and money inspired. 

I'm ready to inquire my own views publicly and shamelessly. 

The nameless office folk cease to grasp the concept, digest it's worth and renew the realization that we all die sometime and get the fuck out of this polluted cloud of egotistic coward. 

The dirt escaping through my fingers and the brightly sculpted sun in my eyes symbolizes that though we are teh products of electronic waste, that we shouldn't lose our faith in life and centralize the objects of love and passion. 

Densensitized children, and moot fixations are the general garbage of our universe. 

I want to craft my art in a place where fresh green and blue are the essence of my being. 

Cynicism and botched ambition behind me.