Zeros and Ones

Vats of conformity, you break beyond me, helping us see the light. 
Lying beside you, my thoughts define you, as this becomes the new mine. 

A life beyond auditory.
I was deaf to the life around me.
Until you came into my placated misery.

While my blindness was unknown.
You laughed with me.
Saving my soul toward sanity.

As we rise amid the players.
There are no favorites.
As the union builds into one.

We cherish each other.
Aiming to help our brothers.
Breaking through the death of shallow, most see as life.

How will I, mind the rest of this life?
Feeling most destitute inside, about the falsehoods around me.
You have shown me the truth to these empty paths, now how do we find our way?

Vats of conformity, you break beyond me, helping us see the light. 
Lying beside you, my thoughts define you, as this becomes the new mine. 

The vision is beyond what I can comprehend.
With masses of zeros and ones, filling me with dread.
But you grab my hand and we walk together.

Bridging the meaning of this feeling,
I dream about the things beyond me.
Your laugh coats the corset inside me.
Keeping me upright in spaces between the lines.

I have lost my mind or I have found my vines of structure?
To pull me into the rebirth of another.
Can you help me, can we help each other?
For I love you, like no other.

Vats of conformity, you break beyond me, helping us see the light. 
Lying beside you, my thoughts define you, as this becomes the new mine. 

This end is living, as I find my new life forgiving, and we find the time. 
Everything broke inside me, to be built again beside me, holding each other, there is a new birth of kind. 

*This needs some editing. I will get back to this little ditty later!*

Broca's Boil

Pills pillage and diminished visibility, making men fall in line. Become a cog in the wheel of our furnished dream, following to where the big brothers lead you to go.

The landscape of dissimulation provides no security, as they lead you to believe they can fix you. The illusion of green grass and security, browns as they watch your brain spoil.

Dimmer they become with every joy swallowed, muting their unique mannerisms. Mannequins are the rebirth of assimilation, flowing into fields of ideal daises blowing in life’s winds of biological perfection.

There you are with your brothers, turning the crank in perfect time. 4/4 of a living death, churning to the rhythm of the picket fence terrain.

Am I the man or the flower, the cog or the storm? Am I you, or am I me, or am I everything the watchers think I should be?

Churn. Crank. Churn. Crank. End. I was never the tipping point, I was every brother and sister’s ruse of life. Finis.

The Neverending Stored He

Foundations of glory are unclear, for no unfeigned destiny prevails. Loss of boundaries, we have, for undue fame, yet there is the possibility of the nothing and human apathy to cloud the visceral discernment.

Words said late, hold true meaning, but the progress proceeds through the loops. The why of destiny asks again, with limited answers as both stand in duress.

We want the same through our masks of victimization, holding our individual life noose of circumstance. Pull tighter we do, with blindly lit eyes, looking for each other.

The force of absolute oblivion that plagues the human condition, thought to be a loss of innocence, might be the freedom of childless dreams.

Unhook your truisms and stand with me in the mist of her gray. The featureless and formless hold respite. There is nothing to prove and nothing to be, no more stories to tell or impressions to make. The freedom is the freeing, a loss of everything finds something. We promise.