Underground_Network
June 21st, 2009, 08:22 PM
I am not inclined to agree with what you're thinking,
But when a Methodist church exiles my whispers,
But not my shouts, I know that I am at the edge of nonexistence.
It is a point somewhere between reawakening and perishing.
Of course I would prefer to purify my thoughts
Before spreading my radioactive bemusement
To the undeserving phantoms known as urbanites,
But when you are stuck where I am, between a pebble
And a soft heart, you know you're fucked.
You see, my enemy is time,
And when time disagrees, it likes
To play a game called 'connect the dots,'
Except there are no dots, and I cannot connect
With a force more powerful than itself.
And that is why your thoughts mean nothing to me.
A thought is an inaction, and when you've
Damaged as many respiratory systems as I have,
You know that breathing isn't easy when a catalog
Of emotions demonizes your pharyngeal sector.
So when you're forced to think about breathing,
You're not actually doing it, and thus the irony
Is tantalizingly frightening, but a smirk is the reaction
Of most when I tell them this.
Maybe it is the phantasmal urbanites
That react in that way, but I honestly
Don't care to know the difference
Between the left way of thinking
And the right way of thinking.
A thought is an inaction. A thought is provocative.
But not as provocative as the rain.
The drops slither down your neck
And you let out a silent moan.
Oh the excitement brought on by simple precipitation!
What a wondrous thing the human mind is,
What a wondrous thing.
Is it no wonder that the most wondrous
Of all of the wonders of this wonderful world
Would be the least wondrous thing
In they eyes of the less than wonderful?
Or is it just logical that to mesmerize
You have to make as little sense as possible
By stating factual information
In the form of a distinct nonscientific
Theory known as 'reproba gaudium.'
But when a Methodist church exiles my whispers,
But not my shouts, I know that I am at the edge of nonexistence.
It is a point somewhere between reawakening and perishing.
Of course I would prefer to purify my thoughts
Before spreading my radioactive bemusement
To the undeserving phantoms known as urbanites,
But when you are stuck where I am, between a pebble
And a soft heart, you know you're fucked.
You see, my enemy is time,
And when time disagrees, it likes
To play a game called 'connect the dots,'
Except there are no dots, and I cannot connect
With a force more powerful than itself.
And that is why your thoughts mean nothing to me.
A thought is an inaction, and when you've
Damaged as many respiratory systems as I have,
You know that breathing isn't easy when a catalog
Of emotions demonizes your pharyngeal sector.
So when you're forced to think about breathing,
You're not actually doing it, and thus the irony
Is tantalizingly frightening, but a smirk is the reaction
Of most when I tell them this.
Maybe it is the phantasmal urbanites
That react in that way, but I honestly
Don't care to know the difference
Between the left way of thinking
And the right way of thinking.
A thought is an inaction. A thought is provocative.
But not as provocative as the rain.
The drops slither down your neck
And you let out a silent moan.
Oh the excitement brought on by simple precipitation!
What a wondrous thing the human mind is,
What a wondrous thing.
Is it no wonder that the most wondrous
Of all of the wonders of this wonderful world
Would be the least wondrous thing
In they eyes of the less than wonderful?
Or is it just logical that to mesmerize
You have to make as little sense as possible
By stating factual information
In the form of a distinct nonscientific
Theory known as 'reproba gaudium.'