Journal, Diary, & Blogging / Were doomed.

A tire iron. Metal and frigid. Speaks in bars. Shakes your car.

Hopefully fixable. A broken tire.

But this electricity, is might fine.

Nervous nerves fight spasms of spasms in an electric chair. But this is unending, spilling forth from its containers.

My thoughts are gasoline, not figuratively, quite literally.

I spill forth a flammable material of the wildest type. A material that causes beyond flames, but spits riddles and rhymes, beauty in time, words of the simplest kind. Not a match is required, lighter or flame, because it can ignite off your own teeth and a spark. If you speak distinct lines, words will form this crime, a lovely little phrase known as arson of your mind.

The gas spills from your nose, eyes, and mouth, and fill up the South, starting with those in the trees, attempting to set them free. You will fall, knees and teeth scraping the ground, to make sparks on the concrete.

Igniting an idea, and burning a nation,

To the ground.

Burn. Ashes to ashes, dust in democracy. Stinging the eyes, and instilling the fearful cries of a world. A unity among giants, to eliminate the bugs in front of our eyes.

Were doomed.

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