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It's the tickle at the back of your throat that you cant quite reach with your tongue. The tell-tale lump in your throat that doesn't disappear no matter how hard you swallow. The dull tingle at the bottom of your spine that makes your shoulders convulse in wretched nothingness.
And when you ask yourself why, to justify these instances of self-abstained guilt, you can't. A Houdini-esque conscience darting between moral guidelines. Justifying everything you've ever done wrong.
Sin's are guilty pleasures justified by wrongdoings of others. It's not evil by comparrison so it's not a crime.
You eventually find yourself hating the world. Misanthropy hatches from within. You see others displacing their sick instances of self-indulgent guilt and criticise them for it, but continue to do it. You build up a false persona to cover yourself and stop people seeing what you're really like, but you hate it when people are phoney.
A life based on misinformation and false pretenses, hating what you are but hating other more for being themselves. You hate people for not looking into the real you, but do all you can to shelter yourself, through embarrasment, shame or
both.
You gradually build up rage, blaming society for your conceeded lifestyle and grow ever-lonely. The people you get close to dont even know you at all, only who you tell them you are. Wash, rinse and repeat. Your churned up little soul implodes and expires, leaving you no more than a hollow shell with a ficticious background and endless regret.
And when you ask yourself why, to justify these instances of self-abstained guilt, you can't. A Houdini-esque conscience darting between moral guidelines. Justifying everything you've ever done wrong.
Sin's are guilty pleasures justified by wrongdoings of others. It's not evil by comparrison so it's not a crime.
You eventually find yourself hating the world. Misanthropy hatches from within. You see others displacing their sick instances of self-indulgent guilt and criticise them for it, but continue to do it. You build up a false persona to cover yourself and stop people seeing what you're really like, but you hate it when people are phoney.
A life based on misinformation and false pretenses, hating what you are but hating other more for being themselves. You hate people for not looking into the real you, but do all you can to shelter yourself, through embarrasment, shame or
both.
You gradually build up rage, blaming society for your conceeded lifestyle and grow ever-lonely. The people you get close to dont even know you at all, only who you tell them you are. Wash, rinse and repeat. Your churned up little soul implodes and expires, leaving you no more than a hollow shell with a ficticious background and endless regret.
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I think you have a penis stuck in your throat and/or brain.
It's the tickle at the back of your throat that you cant quite reach with your tongue. The tell-tale lump in your throat that doesn't disappear no matter how hard you swallow. The dull tingle at the bottom of your spine that makes your shoulders convulse in wretched nothingness.
And when you ask yourself why, to justify these instances of self-abstained guilt, you can't. A Houdini-esque conscience darting between moral guidelines. Justifying everything you've ever done wrong.
Sin's are guilty pleasures justified by wrongdoings of others. It's not evil by comparrison so it's not a crime.
You eventually find yourself hating the world. Misanthropy hatches from within. You see others displacing their sick instances of self-indulgent guilt and criticise them for it, but continue to do it. You build up a false persona to cover yourself and stop people seeing what you're really like, but you hate it when people are phoney.
A life based on misinformation and false pretenses, hating what you are but hating other more for being themselves. You hate people for not looking into the real you, but do all you can to shelter yourself, through embarrasment, shame or
both.
You gradually build up rage, blaming society for your conceeded lifestyle and grow ever-lonely. The people you get close to dont even know you at all, only who you tell them you are. Wash, rinse and repeat. Your churned up little soul implodes and expires, leaving you no more than a hollow shell with a ficticious background and endless regret.
And when you ask yourself why, to justify these instances of self-abstained guilt, you can't. A Houdini-esque conscience darting between moral guidelines. Justifying everything you've ever done wrong.
Sin's are guilty pleasures justified by wrongdoings of others. It's not evil by comparrison so it's not a crime.
You eventually find yourself hating the world. Misanthropy hatches from within. You see others displacing their sick instances of self-indulgent guilt and criticise them for it, but continue to do it. You build up a false persona to cover yourself and stop people seeing what you're really like, but you hate it when people are phoney.
A life based on misinformation and false pretenses, hating what you are but hating other more for being themselves. You hate people for not looking into the real you, but do all you can to shelter yourself, through embarrasment, shame or
both.
You gradually build up rage, blaming society for your conceeded lifestyle and grow ever-lonely. The people you get close to dont even know you at all, only who you tell them you are. Wash, rinse and repeat. Your churned up little soul implodes and expires, leaving you no more than a hollow shell with a ficticious background and endless regret.
Page: