Good evening. This is Mr. Messed Up calling at the entrance of your building. I’d like to speak to fed up or disgruntled, or the socially inept and humble, please? Yes. I’ll hold.
While the elevator music drifts and my arteries split apart in rifts, I continue to hold this gift.
It is unspeakable and intangible, it is hidden in your palm and under your mandible, it is that handy.
It torments the intellectual with an addiction of one day, candy, and the next
The feeble need to see the dream burst in a frenzy given by that virus-laden needle that brings everyone to equal status.
Equally dying to no one, testifying “HELP ME! Can’t you comprehend my physical manifestation of emotion called crying?”
No. Because I am as messed up as you. I may be the Dr. Phil of love as called by a few, but I still suffer from this indoctrinated state imbued which caused you to turn to this satisfaction in the first place.
It’s quite unfortunate that your unwillingness to say no caused a chain reaction, breaking down the doors of the erroneous faction
And the camera’s still moving in action, so never stop discovering, my astronaut.
It’s not your fault, and never has been.
So, why did you make it yours? I told you to come find me before it was too late.
But you made me trek up an electrified gate, jump over a tight space, and slap some sense into your handsome face.
Don’t continue punching and kicking me, I care for your life! Can’t you see my motive though the light is flickering? For all you bicker, you still haven’t realized I’ve saved you.
So, I’ll call or return later, when I’m sure you’ve returned to your proper state of grace.
If only I had a method of returning.
Signed,
Iniquity.
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