A childhood of Nickelodeon and processed food,
But somehow, at Some Point,
I saw that it wasn't the light or the right thing.
An angry adrenaline junkie, sexual promiscuity, sought excitement and spontaneous experiences: trainhop, self-mutilation, scarification, to “fight the norms”, and liberate Self from the TV coma.
All the while withdrawling into my mind,
I’d feel the other side
Sharp sting from the lashback of flashbacks…
I'd pull it back in.
At Some (later) Point,
I stopped believing their lies: that I am just a sinner full of sin, a consumer, and a human hatpin.
I can no longer get angry at you for the inequality, hypocrisy, flat and domineering bigotry of the endless time clock, grey cubicle with a brainwash box,
All growing like cancer on a clear cut, laminated cornfield that was Made in China, gets 18 miles to the gallon, thinks its social issues are the end all, be all for the white man on a white plastic Disney stallion in the ever-unattainable heaven Where God Lives.
Can no longer get angry at you, Paper Monster, for leaving a paper, invasive snail trail through the shallow end of a eutrophic river run dry from being dammed by the same Good Christian man who thinks he is going to design The Cure for global warming,
so that he can save the economy,
and better regulate
fantasies about sodomy and any question about the paper-plastic dichotomy.
I can't get pissed at you and pull it back in,
then take it out on myself anymore,
or ponder killing myself to save my soul from being a minimum wage whore.
Your blue blood is already flowing down your Internet wrists.
YOU'RE ALREADY DEAD.
I can no longer let you live inside my head.
