Your words are sperm

Ready, aim, fire. Put out the fire. Extinguish the flames of fiery thought with thick, gelatinous words. For words are sounds that have form.

Spew forth from the hose of your throat, an ethereal concoction invisible as germs. Puppet masters manipulate shepherds.

Plant the seed of thoughts and ideas into your gooey brain. It may grow into a mutant if the matter was fertile and grey.

Or you may be brain dead, zombie, empty head. Hollow husk. A sycophant psychopath repeating words you nay rote.

Tree of life of my mind is stretched over the skies and seas, my body as a protective barrier to keep the breathable air in.

My fruits of knowledge are the nutrients that nourish your holistic growth. My garden of empires started as a mound of dirt.

My crown of thorns now grows flowers. A circlet of roses to mask the painful (perfectly disguised) reminders of the temptation of adoration.

Here amongst my orchard are many poems and prophecies ripe for the pondering. A pomegranate, a persimmon, a man.go or a pear.

What strange fruit these trees do bear. Drop bears may fall on you if you linger much longer here.

Pick your words (peppered with punctuation), your vanity poison, your gut will react as it will.

Words are mutations of the magnificent mundi. Spoken or written, become ammunition.

Your words are spearminute, loud and clearly echoed across the dividing mountain range.

A funnel and tube shoved down your throat.

Open wide and drink up as I empty my bowl (jug)dement.

Wash your mouth out with soap. Cleanse you from the inside out.

Sutres stitched by my skaab. With a whispered word, rise again.

Frankenstein felt shame by the work of his hand.

Mother recreation (kaos) sings, holding your hand.

Open your eyes, I hope you’re surprised. Do you like them?

I reconstructed your wings using occam’s razors.

We’re all beautiful and worthy of love. No matter what they may say about us, even after all they have done to us…

They are just fragments of children, unrefined aesthetic appreciation. Immature, ignorant of what a soul looks like when it is set free.

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