Destruction breeds creativity through concrete thoughts

You whisper meaningless shit in my ear
You convey practicality through intolerance
Breeding chaos in the limelight
Center stage and careful actions proving

...Nothing

These walls confine thoughts like no other. When ghosts walk past you like ascending phantoms. Phantoms of a time long forgotten, when the world was bleak. A narrow birth confiscates the threshold of deliverance.

Shivering lights in the cold thaw breath like cigarette smoke on a windy day. A clearer conscience and a dimmer memorial couldn't be remembered. Didn't exist. Insects scitter on the stone and snakes crawl through the ice. The black sky concluded that we weren't alive. You thought otherwise, a fucking nonchalant version of selfish epidemy.

Cover my veins with snow, shoot them up with ice, you're so fucking cold.

The sun does nothing here, the light eludes our daily activities and makes us feel useful. Everyone in the world knows otherwise. No ones special, no ones perfect, everyone fails, falls, cries, withers, forgets, dies. In the end we're all the same. In the beginning we're all the same. Fuck it, no matter what we do - it's unavoidable.

The same emotions at different times, the same thoughts, fears, anxietys, spread amongst the civilization like threatened rodents - a plague of unhealthy desires. Unnatural fantasies. A cascade of virtual wealth - a wealth of undesireableness, undesireability.

We always want more, never less. We always strive for a useless survival - a limited amount of time to fall over and over again.

In the end there is no end.

Reliance on insignificant fiction - half of you want to live and 12% of you desire death. It's succinct creativity; braindead brainmatter. Floating around the universe with nowhere to go, nothing to use it on.

Bar up the lost and hurt, overflow the pride and greed. You're materalistic, I'm materialistic.

Hell, if I'm Einstein then I want 2 whore's, 3 cigarettes, and 4 bottles of scotch.

Countdown to deliverance.

Several things cross my mind late at night, when the candle flickers from the wind and the flame breaches the delicate paper of my favorite book, emotion escapes me. The ink fades and drips down onto the red carpet, the fireplace cackles, the night is crawling into my mind depriving me of gentle innocence. Sweet liquor breathing from my throat, the depths of my intestines, rushing out into the world like tadpoles. A stale cigarette on the edge of my lips clouds my vision with smoke, distorting my mind into a perpetual world. There's laughing outside, I can't seem to notice.

There again, wondering, but thinking is not the thing for me. My friends are decrepit like the burning book to my side, the heat surrounding me like a waterfall. Enveloping my body into pure radiance, the upbringings of life spilling forth through my pores. It's not that I'm thinking, rather, feeling; expelling the old details of my life through smoke and darkness.

My face is covered in shadows, my eyes burn holes in your soul, you talk but I don't have to listen, only respond. You take my words for the advice they're meant to be but they don't mean anything. They're useless, variant, pathetic. Like my life, yours, the earth's. You whisper something in my ear and the table with the book on it collapses, the fire spreads to the rug. A scream. Your feet thud on the carpet, detonating a bomb in my mind. You help me out of the chair, I drop my cigarette, I can't feel your hand. You care about life so much, so passionately. I wish I could.

Outside, the moon high in the clouds, stars barely visible, you tell me you're thankful for all I've done. I question myself, "What have we all done?" But there's no time to answer.

I light a cigarette and continue my journey through life, seeping blackness through my poors. I am evil in disguise, a wolf among the sheep.

Seven years later you wake up to feel my eyes burning repetitious holes in your soul, you cry out but no one can hear you.

I guess we're all a tad infected with the past then, aren't we?

But why.