I write...

I write and I write and I wrong what I write because the right writing causes the wrong thoughts to betray my hands of fate. I exhaust my synapses and fuse out the shock treatment in order to continue with the thought process that had prolonged my end in the beginning? You follow? Cause I'm not leading. No more leading in the footsteps that I had created because my balance is off and I'll falter on the lava (which is actually the carpet, but don't tell mom). I'm figuratively possessed by the alterior exterior of my alternate demeanor which only created itself from the fabulous anterior of my posterior complex. I'm trying to forget the thoughts that can't be forgot and remembering the memories that had once staked claim in a small chamber. To dominate the place where existence is bleak isn't an accomplishment, but a curse. To see the end before the beginning starts, it's a worse fate than living the lie. To lie down in a lie only equates to the subatomic mass that once created life, but now lays dormant for all eternity. I dream of a dream that exists in a world created from hope. I hope for a solution to the problem that has caused the breathing to be unbalanced and the walking to be erratic. The game of silly walks causes my heart to break side ways and skip off a cliff. I missed the bullseye and it misses me. I dream of a hope that can once again blossoms into a rainbow of awesome, that won't wash away from fading. I exist only to be non-existent.