Countless torn out pages; how similar in comparison to the pieces of my heart. Fear of leaving behind my grotesque, dirty words on wrinkled papers due to a chosen death. This is what I have become: fruitful ideas, thrown to the monstrous trash. A body, a soul, a mind, riddled with paralyzing thoughts that unlike paper, cannot be thrown to anything but the trash of myself. Over and over, I slither the words of disgust onto my skin, as if talking to the Devil himself. They sit and fester on its surface and slowly melt into my pours, contaminating every cell along the way. The circling thoughts orbit the massive sun, my heart, my light. Soon they are pulled, pushed, crowded deep in my core where the light plunges into the black hole. There, in my bowels they rot, awaiting to be expelled. But with each end of constipation, the extracted thoughts are replaced two-fold. I can never purge myself of them fully. Never clean, nor empty, nor pure. Proof that I am human, yet I feel less human than a tortured prisoner of war. I am M.I.A between my true being and its Anti-Christ.

Numerals of time, how odd. How can something pass with such haste, yet still so slowly. Time mocks me. "Tick-tock," it snarls out of its teeth. It's hands attempt to push me forward, yet I resist. I sit in the center with my past, present, and future. It would be easier to allow the flow of hands to seduce me, to move me past each numeral of time. Yet, how may I allow this seduction when I have been lured by my constant 'Running of the Bulls'. This frantic run of freight is the only remaining life within me. The only frill in the world of robotic masses. I'd rather run from the viciousness of my bulls for fear of their sharp horns, than be seduced by the lifeless robots. However, to them the mask I wear must appear so plastic, so dead like their own. Do I wear it to blend in with them, or do I strategically place it to hide the rotting flesh that lies beneath? Flesh no longer prevails in a world of robots, for the insects have nothing else to feast on. Instead, it is devoured by maggots and flies alike due to its delicate nature and sweet smell. Soon it will be eaten away in completeness, and then only plastic, lifeless eyes and molded expressions will remain. The ultimate disguise, I ask? The joining of the enemy? Will it save me from my bulls? Oh, but how close these eyes lie with death! One cannot share the bed of such alluring company without the repercussions.

Yet, there is another way and I must bloom.