The Show

The tent was well up, visible to everyone, why did I doubt a show was in order?

Chicken, first, or the egg?
Was the show for a reason, or there were reasons for the show?
Did it come from within, or from without, in other words?

One thing's for certain: what I evade during my waking hours isn't left behind.
It just sleeps.
Then to assault me when I lower my guard, be it willingly or else.

To puke, now, would surely be misunderstood.
Sure as hell, though, alcohol wouldn't be the reason.

Fuck you too, dear, fuck you too.

The binge

What now?
Being educated by composure?
Being taught moderation?
Being fucking annoyed over my own expressions of my very self?

I ain't sorry if it was discomforting.
I ain't sorry if it was too much for you.
I ain't sorry if i asked for comprehension, and got ways to be helped.

Did I, EVER, asked for any of those?
Your help disgusts me, your ways, your moderation bores me, your achievements are signs of painful mediocrity to me.
Ignorance, breeding preposterous solutions to problems you know nothing, nothing at all, about.

Reach, reach the fuck out.
Out of your limits, out of meaning, out of concern, out of reason, out of responsibility, out of thy, bloody, self.

Be, for once, and once only, fucking light!
Do, for once, enjoy.

I guess not.
Control, control, control.
But a heart-stroke and you're out.

Try control that, you twat.