Grimey

It shreds me when released, then bursts into confetti. Words are papier-mâché, articles of all of us, tabloids torn apart then glued back together piece by piece. Playing pretend made a masterpiece that will be gone before that big breeze or a fast move cracks the motif, and the brittle shell is more disgusting than most I'd really believe or expect to see. The motive is unrepairable, won't be repressed, still there nevertheless in a pool of gripping distress. What's the point of fables, what's the point of idols too? They are usually strung out and disappointing. See happiness till it's all disparaged. Exposed so hope will take off, and make space for the expanding emotions that are less forgiving. These make up a stage where the play performed is most unfriendly. Resulted in damn ruination. It's televised so there can't be wiggle room for reparations. Abolished, no evaporated, it's no use if the truth clears rooms and leaves them speechless, tongue-tied, it really shocks without awe. It changes mood, and the masses will say really just how they feel, so next we are supposed to pick up the pieces if they still even there. In short, they're taken aback; these stabs in our back will collectively mature into a scar that can't be scratched. Sculptures turn sulfur, what once was marble-made, was chiseled down, and whittled away. Downhill rolls a derby of the disturbed, perturbed in a gaseous state; a floating stench alone will cry, tear ducts leaking and streaming in unison, still non-union; the establishment put em' up to it. I wish it was that easy to say. You'll need to excuse me, I'll just need a couple days.