I'm finally free from these conspiratorial idealizations manifesting into simplistic, over-exaggerated, mild-tone, conversational, unseen limitations. Maybe I'm meant to wonder in complex situations, boiling evaporated droplets of condensation dripping upon unexpected, sweating foreheads. Wetting twisted tongues, tied, tasting salty lips dried by licking them aside, side by side.

Apparently, people say they're really sick of this life. Maybe it's because their quick wits are a vice to compress big dreams into mundane life. I guess it's a lack of interest or excitement, so comparing what's seen on a screen isn't what it seems when outside. These seeds seem to hide in darkness online, left to suffocate alive without any reason or drive, unable to breathe in the living sunlight. Photos synthetic, no rhythm to synthesize.

I mean, it is tough to struggle and fight every day, becoming less than a version of choices we thought made us right. What became of us who fought with and argued till night, sucking this life we’re holding out straight out of daylight?

Maybe the person I am is the worst of them all. Was I cursed by generations that came first, watched them all climb up in reverse to rock bottom, stood so tall? Was I born into backward momentum, started walking to crawl, my rest was a bedroom for sleeping turned tossing into watching closing walls.

I've turned what views think of me into it all; this mockery is flattering to see who we are. Imagine it's magic, being transparent in awe. I swear it's sorcery, torturing calls; you hear it in everything, big, little, and small. However, I talk, people's thoughts think so clever, unaware of errors; they're lost. Swear there's a consciousness I'm dissecting, effects to its cause, but by now, I just sound as upset as we all are.

This happens when dwelling in tunnel perceptions; we walk through funnels like chimneys, smoking barrels of smog or eating unhealthy, feeding blood streaming clots reaching our bellies, bulimic with froth. Our faces turn red from this pressure of hops, squeezing out our livers to process our costs. So now we say 'fuck it,' our lives are so long; we grew up too fast while still being so young. Our feelings of now are our past futures; we've already done.

I guess that's why memories of nostalgia are fun. Don't mind my simple rhyme schemes of diddle de tweedle dumb. We live with a complex of evil and being the one, the last living, breathing reason we have won something within ourself, being seen as enough of a trouble.

Now, people just give up.

Writing by:
© Travis Dob