To make me stop,

where do I begin?

Maybe at the pinnacle, or maybe

at the pulpit. As vague voices are

mimicked by infinite questions, or

maybe it’s just the introspective

paranoia.

We all are doing this on impulse,

and that is the thought thinking

for itself.

The piece of all of us that creates

with nothing, the concept of God

that doesn’t exist.

Questions, questions,

where are our questions?

Locked within a trapped idealistic

savvy that does more to spite it’s

face than plagiarized aesthetics?

No, it’s constantly answering

with a rebuking rebuttal our

conscious self shoves aside arrogantly.

Choosing to profusely properly portray

a symbiotic relationship between mind,

and body, Spirit and soul.

Introspectively personal, the voices

reverberate, more likely to act than

the physical. Not as a criticism, merely

the proportional distribution of a

marred clarity.

A form of profanity manifested

within what we won’t protest,

a profession, and questions remain

unanswered.

Where does one go from here?

Atop the crescent moon shaped

apparition, atop their ingeniously

devised curriculum, atop the mandatory

appearance between pews, blaming

ourselves with no retort, with no reaction.

Wondering why, while each collar

coded threat of terrorism continues

shaping our reality, and we embrace

fantasy, because fiction easily becomes

the travesty of an improperly designed

means of prognosis.

Why not try and figure just how tight

their grip is?

And we digress, can’t we find the finish?

We’re told that the end holds a bright light,

and conclusion, but what about hindsight?

Is it not it’s own heaven?

We barely know who we are, continuing to

wander. Soldering concepts together,

just to endure this new brand of elitism.

But we’re the ones standing on the thresh

hold of entropy.

Maybe we’ve already deduced your

technocratic capital socialism, and we

revolt.

Moving silently behind the scenes,

listening while comparing all the solutions,

based on our individual institutions.

It’s mind over matter, but if your too

idealistic, you have nothing to nurture,

then again it’s never us, it’s our future.

The sneeze before you know what orgasm

is, the ability to prejudge, because you receive

what society influences, and speaks behind

razor wired laced halitosis. Hypnotic

device preprogramming, and reprogramming

it’s a “Grand Plan” for the organisms

greatest test subject.

The ones who scuttle, and scurry for scraps.

Each new fashion, each new branch of

propaganda stands as the trap, but we have

to have it.

The pulse of our lives; the constraints we

create by forgetting we’re sheep.

Hold us back, keep us down.

This was meant merely as a structured

ideological principle printed upon paper,

because even sometimes needs an always.