A Fickle World
by Sean Westman
A fickle world, bought and sold so easily without an understanding of what it has built upon itself, holds criminal the minds of whom dare to become forth spoken. Seeking wisdom within its own controversy, it holds sacred the intricacies of words unto which it feels evolved from its very own animalistic nature. There will be no roots from which its offspring shall spindle. The saturation of its flattened ways, having lost all knowledge of whence it came, shall leave no hero here within a land lacking of individuality. If you do not conform, you do not belong.
It will be the writings of man that shall be in question. Belief systems broken for no man has ever been trusted. Greed shall induce its name beyond vanity for a name within the pages of history to dwell. Those who strive for order shall hold these pages dear bearing the blood of distrust within its veins. As are now the minds of our children programmed with the poison of commercial pride. So are we the bearers of the Devils fruit. An image built from the minds of man himself.
Shame on your system of life fire, with its flames of which scorch the very souls of those who are forced to feed from your conformist plate. As you shall forever remain blinded by that very light which to your lack of knowledge shall burn half as long. Too late then, for you shall fade into the blackness of taint, dribbling its refuse into a vastly seeping oil pan beneath what will only be recognized as the machine. And so shall my doom be from birth where freewill holds no bearing.
Look upon me not, for I am neither here nor there but am away from your lies of a truth which cannot be. Saddened you shall perish from my never ending hate. A power of which holds you dear, for my energy shall rise against the tides of darkness which you create behind a smile. They will listen to your words. They will dance to your tune. The puppet of a world which has no sense of itself, yet speaks as though I needed its advice. Gladly I would lay myself down to sleep. For that shall be my only peace.
From my own mother’s womb till this day do I suffer? I Leave behind a placenta of truth which shall be vacuumed away by a world of ruin. “What news of hell?” As I pop my head into the befouled air which for the first time fills my lungs with a cancer of pure death and despair. No news is good news in such a corrupt sweltering environment of white washed truth. To not suffer is to live in vain. Bring glory to that which you shall never know until after you have died from a world of lies, or burn within a lake of fire.
This was not a path which I have chosen, rather, one which has been cast before me of survival. Welcome not those coming to be with a smile. Your happiness is your own. As is your greed and sinful nature. What right do you have to tell me what is kind or just or even real for that matter? Your ways are lived in a place that is bought and sold. My ways are not for sale. But I would be happy to share them with you. Good day fickle world.
