(((((Little death and the mailbox))))))

(((((Little death and the mailbox))))))

I had always wanted to varnish the misconceptions of my life, wrap them up, bandaged

and bruised by war, because we are entitled to this massacre of emotions and drop

dead dissemblance.

Silence seems to defend most of the radical insight that deems worthy in my mind,

calloused and subjective towards fever based concepts, involving the changing of my

own conscious demeanor.

Yet I remain in this slant of ambivalence and nocturnal non sobriety.

Forcing vintage, marked burns, tattooed on the farthest corner of my brain.

We are unkept.

Forced by maladjustment and social paranoia, to conform in bouts of disarray and

perpetual madness.

Though, our numbing outline of ideas serve purpose, the second glance of questions is

variably put into circulation. 

Am I alive?

Am I dead?

Am I really me?

We all serve our selves with hope and a side of faith based reassurance, but when the

piano trickles down the keys and you feel the low end bass tone that curls your toes

with uneasy restlessness, only than ,will you know that there is no such thing as truth,

only evaluative response.

By fraying the stringed nerve endings.

My collective mind will share with you:

The binding of hands. 

The wiring of mouths

The addiction of conditioning.

Written By Adam Guerra - Posted 05/12/12