July 22nd, 2022 6pm -
On a whim i sin,
Religion or not, morals exist as synonyms across nations,
Killing, stealing, indulgence in escapism,
There's no right or wrong,
Logic is relative, emotions are rational,
Irrationality is dismissive, giving in lazily rather than delving in, discovering the reasons for mustering nonsense, the irrelevant
Making connections is intelligence, nothing is stupid, its only a matter of perspective and your willingness to diversify position.
But i lack omniscience, confined to my mind, recycling cells with held remnants of past relevance, clouded by the crossing of reference,
Thus creation begins from the mixing of blueprints, and my only child never had the chance to exist,
Another sin i live with, justify my guiltlessness with assumptions, drug influence on defects and financial lackings, but the truth is selfishness, was it even mine to begin with?
Murder doesn't weigh on the brain as much as they may want you to think, the proof is in the protest of pro choice, most of which is narcissistic rather than concern for the unborn infant,
When you're in that office, looking at the sonogram will songs play in your head? Or do parental instincts really not exist?
I don't expect you to understand if you've never been alone, always an answer at the other end of the phone,
On a whim we sin, its not bad if others don't think it is, but then why did it hurt when everyone picked on him? Until i stepped in as protectorate using my privilege to blanket him,
Whatever spirit has my back i could never repay this gift, paying forward in such a way....
Take it for granted again, i convince myself to do, when they rest their aid, and every subsequent miracle perpetuates my pattern,
What they want from me, what i give, i knew once, in a false sense of control i forget that i am the remote, in the sense of an island far from a coast, somewhere in this ocean i am alone, prime candidate for something they want, i don't know, it might be that innocence that's so valuable, like a coveted virgin traded amongst kings, am i crop? A tool? A vermin yet lured in?
Is that why I'm my mothers miracle child? Should i exist?
If i am, i am, and will continue to be whatever it is that this is, for as long as something's happening something must be done, if doing nothing was nothing we wouldn't do something, everything is all at once. There i go, out of control, so promising a write crumbled, this rabble holds up the top portion. Like the dirt burrys the supports in of a building. Constructed atop rubble of ancient spires we aspire to mimick, mock, or outdo. I just want to match the fallacies and make them true.
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