Born to Dream about Chaos

There are those of us in society that have to at one point kill their muse and end the madness of simplicity. There is a question mark in our heads as we grab hold of any weapon we can find, and heading towards the door. Considering the only weapon I held in my hands was a flat headed shovel with rust from years of digging in the mud, I felt strangely enough that this would accomplish the mission. Accomplishments, so few and futile at this juncture in my life. So much wasted energy, so many slaps in the face with moments of non brilliance that one has to wonder if there ever was a moment you contributed. Did you benefit those around you? Did you think that they cared for a moment that your best was probably worth the cum soaked hell that you currently lead into battle. Battling your demons became more important, in order for you to continue past the current point of shit you found yourself shoveling. Did you really think that the shit of God would reach your mouth? Did you look back at your life and imagine the moment you said "I made art," only to be smacked across the lips with the realization that your last bowel movement contained blood to increase the shading technique you saw on some outer space program on a foreign made television. But for fucks sake, you finally have the demons exorcised, and you know what you must do. If it wasn't for that sudden realization, instant ejaculation of hatred, you would not have that murderous intent spelled in your eyelids. You would not be prepared to reap a whirlwind of marrow and human matter upon this bitch of a planet you couldn't fucking stand. That's right, you discovered your softer side, and raped it with a knife. You discovered the beauty in hate, and the simplicity of violence. You awoke to find yourself squeezing the life out of your muse. She looks you in the eye as you continue to pound her flesh furiously with your white knuckles of death row. You let out the assassins smile as bloodlust overtakes your face, as the drool mixes with your sweat from days of dust gone by. Your muse has been asking for this, and you were all to pleased to finally drive the bitch from your mind, and the ultimate realization that there never was a moment of ecstasy in this otherwise overdramatic world in which we piss all over. Your only fear is that this symbolic murder will only last so long, and the desire could be there again, oh lord i don't ask for too much, but please let this feeling return with earnest. OH GOD, WHY DID YOU MAKE THIS SO MUCH FUN! Why did you make our bodies so soft and full of loosely packed atoms for me to turn into a mesh of lifelessness. NO, YOU CAN'T ALREADY BE DEAD!!! YOU ARE?!! The end has arrived, and there is nothing for me to do except to push your flesh deep into the ground on which you died on. There is very little pleasure from this, but there will always be the memories. I can finally replace the masturbation filled nightmares of years of abuse. I know now what can trully make me free...