DONT THINK

something · 06-11-2015, 03:16 PM

Habitual deliberation. Deliberate. Definitive sense; I make it.
Constant contemplation. Is God some ancient pondered plot to save us.
Consider consideration. I censor my sentence by sensing taste. It's
compulsive. Repulsive. Repugnant. Impulsive. Indulgent. Reluctance
to reflect on one's reflection. Obsessed with what's incessant.
A second of second thought lasts forever if ever paused
to question each lesson taught like it's better than getting lost.
I'm mulling it over. I'm weighing my options.
Opportunity's losing steam under the weight of the process.
My behavior is honest, but nothing came from a promise;
the best of intentions crest at pretentious when initiation's a problem.
I catalog these matters. I imagine. Exhaustive.
When at a loss for hazards I enact and I cause them.
A caricature in characters. Words. Did I inherit a curse.
So much more to writing in a journal than what my parents observed.
A dissection of essence. Impressed with the narratives curves.
How I could manipulate the page and your merits, in turn.
Atheists playing God with a Satanist way of thought.
Not Satanist in a crazy sense, I mean the way in which we're Gods
of our own way and senses. Paint the picture's dawn
with rays emitting 'cross the day's ascending frost
and you'll wake to living calm. Paint the picture's dawn
with razor fitted jaws, serrated riddled claws
and a shade that sits too long? You may not wake today at all.
I'm trapped between the lines. Life's a dialog. A lie I write in songs.
I lie at night and talk to the rhymes and lines I've drawn.
They call themselves people, astounding, 'cause they don't know my easel
is see through and makes up their surroundings.

06-11-2015, 03:16 PM	#1
something Junior Member Join Date: May 2015 Posts: 12 Champed - OM VOTM June 2015 Rep Power: 0	DONT THINK Habitual deliberation. Deliberate. Definitive sense; I make it. Constant contemplation. Is God some ancient pondered plot to save us. Consider consideration. I censor my sentence by sensing taste. It's compulsive. Repulsive. Repugnant. Impulsive. Indulgent. Reluctance to reflect on one's reflection. Obsessed with what's incessant. A second of second thought lasts forever if ever paused to question each lesson taught like it's better than getting lost. I'm mulling it over. I'm weighing my options. Opportunity's losing steam under the weight of the process. My behavior is honest, but nothing came from a promise; the best of intentions crest at pretentious when initiation's a problem. I catalog these matters. I imagine. Exhaustive. When at a loss for hazards I enact and I cause them. A caricature in characters. Words. Did I inherit a curse. So much more to writing in a journal than what my parents observed. A dissection of essence. Impressed with the narratives curves. How I could manipulate the page and your merits, in turn. Atheists playing God with a Satanist way of thought. Not Satanist in a crazy sense, I mean the way in which we're Gods of our own way and senses. Paint the picture's dawn with rays emitting 'cross the day's ascending frost and you'll wake to living calm. Paint the picture's dawn with razor fitted jaws, serrated riddled claws and a shade that sits too long? You may not wake today at all. I'm trapped between the lines. Life's a dialog. A lie I write in songs. I lie at night and talk to the rhymes and lines I've drawn. They call themselves people, astounding, 'cause they don't know my easel is see through and makes up their surroundings.