my rage is pent up,
and needs to be spent.
it’s indicative of repressed things.
unknown in memory,
but, suddenly remembered if provoked.
simple cilia-like triggers,
up and down my being.
inextricably woven into my DNA.
prepared for the slightest provocation.
I don’t need a safe space.
I need a rage space.
I’m tired of swallowing your insistent mealy-mouthed duplicity.
You peddle an illusion of liberty.
but, we are all prisoners of self, and condemned of poignant detached fellowship.
born to die.
most often, alone.
dead on our feet.
chasing and avoiding.
The truth, undeniable.
Liberty doesn’t exist at all.
if you had to fight for your life everyday,
in the biological sense,
you would have no time for that.
your patience for tolerance would be swept away,
and you’d marvel at the energy that self-deceptions require.
chaos and order are fierce competitors.
they leave nothing on the field of battle.
it fucking simply is…
our perspective relative to that should humble, not enable.
23 years old girl travelling solo on a motorcycle.
Not just live and let live, but live and help live
Monthly Festival : Turn your book into a movie and get it seen by 1000s of people. Or garner FULL FEEDBACK from publishers on your novel and help your next draft. Or get a transcript video of your novel performed by professional actors.
Twisted tales of times true