stinging lactic acid build-up / injuries prove fatal when the soul is given away
sold their soul for thirteen cents when they wanted to give a tootsie-roll to their junior-high sweetheart. because what is money when you’re thirteen? every cent spent on another person’s future spouse is another silver dollar running down the donation bin to a man you’ll never meet.
or perhaps, as the capitalists would appreciate, a dollar down the donation bin to a corporation that makes processed soup to give to that man. because most love isn’t genuine. it’s like the changing of the seasons. beautiful, but uncaring for you.
you can love the winter all you like, but when your car breaks down on the highway in a blizzard, you won’t find mother nature there to comfort you. because she hates what you’ve done to her body, you wicked defiler.
so you claim to let your heart bleed. but we both know such a thing isn’t true. maybe you like the feeling of blood leaking out of your chest like a gas pump, but maybe you should realize that you might be fueling another woman’s getaway car.
and damn, she has the entire bank in her trunk.
so you scream out, but only in mind. you pray for help, but faith without works is dead you know.
you somehow think you can use your mind alone to bend others towards you. but humanity’s telekinesis is riddled with pins and needles.
atrophy claimed our power the first day we used our hands to kill. now, it is kept from us as we destroy each other’s lives and blame some unseen force for our problems, even though you are mine and i am yours.
because love isn’t genuine. it’s like the changing of the seasons.