Ace Of Black Hearts

Bronze Star - 2,837 Points (04/17/1984 / Homa Lousiana)

Manufactured Images - Poem by Ace Of Black Hearts

Master plan.
Built upon match sticks.
Watch it all burn away,
Fading fast.
Nothing good lasts.
Why is that?
Moral objections.
Obscurely rejected.
Specimens of good conscious constantly dissected.
Perfumed sprayed to mask those full of deceit.
A mold built out of concrete.
Here is perfection, take it because it is just not me.
Not a man I can ever be.
Living in a ocean full of sharks.
Such a small fish, no one ever even notices me.
Sometimes I thank god for this.
Just a fly resting on an empty wall.
Soon I will be long dead gone.
And in the pessimistic moment of choking on life as I know it.
I'm still thinking it is my one and only chance so don't blow it.
A rue to a set thickness.
Some spices for flavor.
These ingredients are not possessions we should savor.
They are not how we got here.
No not the form of transportation.
Just an illusion in the form sensations.
Can you still taste it?
Desires over indulgently.
To the grave, clean shaved and dressed in black.
No picture of the past life.
Inheritance is not something we get to keep.
A moment frozen time.
We are all just trying get by.
In a godless world to survive.
Too many goodbyes.
Each and everyday wasted.
Where is the communication.
The connection, the bond, that makes us all one.
Born from the same strand.
Raised by similar helping hands.
Spoons and shoes of all different sizes.
Equal, to what standards, to measuring stick?
Millimeters or Miles?
What scientists are behind this?
For and against.
In articles odds are placed just for the gambler of a routine habit.
543 to 1 come on that is guarantee win.
Especially when you look at the names on the pay stubs.
Corporation of whom?
If it is defined as a person then I wish to not exist.
Because I don't want to be a slave to an entity for an eternity.
Living in a nation claiming divinity.
The devils are in the details.
Don't sign on the dotted lines with the dollar as the pen.
Fighting from the inside of the corrupt desolation.
And to think the majority are supporting it.
Completely for it.
No complaints, by the sinner nor saint.
Just a zombified body moving without reason.
A brain baked and seasoned.
A dish served to all.
Swallowing it down in pleasure.
The edge is getting closer.
Walking backward on the sky lights.
Pay attention, or you'll be the next to fall.
Into the factory.
Conforming you to their reality.
And with possession being nine tenths of law.
Suddenly there is no real existence at all.

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Poem Submitted: Monday, July 15, 2013

Poem Edited: Monday, July 15, 2013

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