Locked. Loaded. Armed. Ready. Aimed. Fire. It's dire, to retire before the bear devours your filthy carcass. Yes sire, i'm on the spire, not afraid of death I can go higher. This is no church though, it's a manifestation of the hex that affects me and it spreads like wildfire, akin to empty desire, or abundant misplacement of trust that inspires, a deep hatred for the beating prison that I'm in. Send help before the evil seeds sprout from within.
Just a young cat with similarities to a bat, using my voice to get you to react, echolocation to expose my feelings in a cacophonous stream of consciousness that bleeds out onto the page when i'm feeling rage, or anything at all. See they resonate all across my skull, wall jumping from side to side and high to low, not only metaphorically but physically so. Unfeeling it flows along with the blood tainted by anything that can stop, the pain, sits in my chest and sets it aflame, love and joy replaced by an extreme ache and a longing for death.
Ain't that a shame? What has become of my brain? The earth shattering repulsion happening between both hemispheres is staggering. An expert in meandering between creativity and logic, tragic stories turning into emotionless algorithms. A soulless body filled with cynism.
Maybe I need an exorcism.
