Fuckin tired of tip toeing around my own thoughts.

Pen to paper only producing monotonous words of

heart felt jibber jabber

with no moxie.

It's like I rode a wave that broke and left me 

stuck in the ocean with not a breeze or a wave

or anything for me to grab on.

 

Looking for creative shit to write.

Creative thoughts that rhyme.

Forced creativity is blasphemy

and an insult to the art.

 

Opening oneself to the flow of info,

the gates of hell can tempt with drug induced states

of creative and intuitive flow.

Original ideas produced first by the beast,

second nature of sin released.

 

Human brain melts islands of thought

and solidifies

like mountains flowing lava into oceanic depths,

hardening to the skies.

 

Old ideas are fallen angels.

Spreading seed

coquering within a holy breed.

To the outside from in

side to side,

it begins

to formulate a plan of destruction.

Recursive patterns that produce satanic seed. 

 

Fuck.

 

Never have I felt so (blank).

Blah dah dah.

 

I feel like I'll never know if I'm dreaming,

or truly awake.

Or trapped.

Like God trapped the deceiver

to slither on his belly for the ages,

a snake.  

 

It's all you'll ever be.  

One to the furthest reaches of the sea. 

Leader of the sect.

Or within grasp,

reach for you in the depths.

 

Abysmal sickness

infinitesimal.

Listen:

I've got nothing to say that's important.

It's rhetoric,

a rhetorical assortment of subliminal sorted thoughts formin' in an abnormal shaped box.