Friday, May 16, 2014

Mood Swings

The urge to write is immense. 
A sabbatical of misery. 
A half-empty glass, a failure's success. 
بانت نهاية قصتك، وانعرف منهو الأناني.

Words are limited, letters are not enough. 
Dictionaries are filled with shit. 
But then again, minds are shittier. 
Have we a soul? A heart? 
Have we a life? 

What makes white white? What makes a paper, a paper? 
Meanings are lost. The greats have perished. 
Nonsense is deemed wise. Coherence easy. 
I make no sense. 

Fingers onto boards, random punches. 
A heavy heart lightened by grammatical strictness. 
Punctuation vital. 
All summed up in the space between essential and essence. 

About to leave. 
Entering fuckery. Embracing mood swings. 
Italics are pitiful. A sign of self-assigned knowledge; bullshit. 
Who are we to judge what's important and what's not? 

Why edit? 
Why change originality? 
Why alter real feelings? 
Why kill the genuine; and keep the prosthetic?

Plastics are wrong. 

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