meandering through the hidden pathways of middle class
education and pathetic adolescent emotions and treading upon
the forgotten lives and ideas of countless silenced prophets.
magenta outlines of blurred philosophies are only followed
by people who accept vagueness without difficulty.
you just couldn't do that.
you buy expensive shovels and dig through dying archives,
looking for a new perspective on uniqueness and dreaming
of walking into a room where everybody wants to be just like you.
imagine slipping into the busy but not full stream of cloned
individuals - happy to pretend they're different, happy to know
they don't care. but you run away from them through
dark alleyways until you meet a timely end, with blood stains
on your fading jeans and damaged shoes.
you hate fashion hospitals, they care for the masses, you'd
prefer to commit repetitive clothing suicide and be reborn over and
over again until the universe ends and you can only cry
into your pillow.
dreary scribbled notes on wide-lined A5 paper, sacre bleu,
you amuse yourself by playing silly little games
with a sense of guilty immaturity, but you carry on
knowing there's a finite number of years you can escape retribution.
fallacy at it's finest.
you're too scared to be impulsive, too afraid to let go of
the pointless traditions and superstitions you hold on to
in hope that one day they yield some sort of happiness
and then you'll laugh at anyone who thought otherwise.
because arguments are only fun when you win.
