Bad Machines

bad

 

The days come around as if they never even left me. My voice is clear. Through repetition, I’ve become the man I always dreamed of being. A vision is worth more than money. It weighs heavier than a fast car or a collection of shiny possessions. It casts me adrift, but that’s of no concern to me. I’m worlds apart from a model citizen, but what glory is there to be found in fitting in with everyone else. All those dumb ideals. Those wretched faces who want me to become just like them. A lifestyle of the here and now. It means nothing. The night is my lover. The silence and comfort of darkness. Catacombs of lost faith waiting to be seen again. Relics of a future once traded for ignorance. It’s easier to give up, but where’s the fun in that? Where’s the fun of being another average soul, so lukewarm and casual? Writers of bad science fiction who know no bounds. Drama wrote as if life never even existed. Not all stories are meant to be told. Meaningless words that amount to little more than boring masturbation of limited minds. They parade their stories as if they’ve done something worthwhile, but although they’ve written so much, they’ve not said a thing. They never do. The confident ones speak so loudly because their words are so empty. The ones so quiet and desperate- they’re the fuckers you should be listening to. Say it clear. Stick to your guns. Time is my enemy, and time is my friend. Everything takes so long, and yet without those painful stretches of time, I’d never have learnt a thing. Keep your head down. Keep it high. No such thing as a rule book. No such thing as a straight line. As the magpie flies, my tongue is kept true. I am my fathers son. I am a bad machine, and one just begging to be let loose with a vision worth fighting for.

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