Neurological Disorders
Yeah, the blue eyed gorgeous Britannique, has stranded of what had seemed like a paradise bird.
An honorable living, luxurious occupation with matching payments.
Street hotties, elite drinks and seats parties.
From work to beach to dance to fuck.
An endless chase and run, rucksack full of candies to exploit, yet the mirror asks: who’s the happiest amidst your lifetime versions?
The little girl collecting rain water and cheering with for spring wild flowers to roam and get lost in the wonders of bruised knees and elbows from crossing the fields just before the season starts.
The season of life to mass up our neurological gift.
Resist the temptation, young daughter.
Play the piano.
Watch the lakeside view.
I have crumbled on foreign floors to present you with this choice.
Never stop rowing these waters.
The ticket to your freedom.
Is for free.
But costs the effort.
A high payment, worth the pain.
Beforehand.
I love you.
Whatever that means.
A golden retriever, was crafted delicately to form the most loyal, kind and well behaved man’s friend.
Where the hell did he go when neglected and tied to a table leg day and night.
A bite on a comforting palm, reaching for help.
Nothing makes sense now.
Since a hellish trigger has been pulled. Poetically speaking.
Real shooting.
In the head.
Pardon your life.
Some shelf potatoes had cried out while being added with salt to what some prisoners will dine for tonight.
Nothing less nothing more.
The sweet bitter taste of labor of the mind, poisoned by the very thought of emotion to carry sand rocks from a to b and b to a.
Now that entanglements are feet dancing shackles won’t go too far.
Further than this order, to put your shit together, now that your soul has gone sailing on Siberian frozen flats.
There is a lot of pressure to equalize.
Better yesterday, no one is leaving until this mass is reordered.
Not an exclusive tropical sand beach expensive drinks and 5 stars service, wet towels on forehead and sexy bikinis beach bed tanning massaging the karma points.
There are still monsters under the bed.
Better burn it all.
Your wish to accommodate free things.
Since they were all, humanity’s trap to keep you upside down, losing your shit.
Now chasing the wrong rabbit.
The hole.
Of no exit.
…
At least some words have spilled over beige pages of prison cells.
Now, we have something to admire.
A darker poem for a sweeter person.
Drinking chocolate milk by Nestlé, with all the artificial vitamins necessary to become infertile just before puberty.
The strong survives.
The tortured thrives.
But first, he she it dies.
