the pressure

is building it is mounting it is ever present

it is prescient it is more aware of the self than

the self is of itself it builds faster than a team 

of construction workers in the summer sun

their voices swearing and cursing the name

of god the one who made the one who cast

his favor onto us for a horrible disappointment

are you sure he is disappointed yes i am pretty

sure so am I cast in his image are we statues

for such a servile purpose our thoughts run

afoul of our actions and the two stop to think

about what the present course will be but they

never seem to agree on anything so what can

they do but agree to disagree splitting the 

difference the blithering voices of the fools

of our blood never cease to be never cease

to speak their inanities the cause of ill ease

can't go back can't take back this no one no

not no one are we begging yet are we willing

to scream please are we aware of our lives 

as a planetary disease spread without check

across the skin of gaia have you wondered 

what she is doing to solve her problem this

infestation on her situation the placation of 

our conscious thoughts with simple baubles

too shiny to look away from oh so pretty oh

you pretty thing how easily you believe all 

the things they say about you could be tell 

me some pretty things too lie to me lie to

you lets pretend lets pretend there is no 

raison for this to no longer be we we wii

what is the symptom of awareness in this

state of hyberbolic reality there is a thin

line of sanity that is being erased as we draw

it in the sand but there is no one to keep 

track so we erase what we create we create

only to erase we are builders bent on destruction

we are builders who excel at demolition there

is a final consequence to this position this 

mission full of folly oh golly will you please

refrain and reframe this argument into some

thing resembling words or order or sense or

hope or anything but chaos and madness and

depression and hopelessness a fear a dread

of the unseen and unsaid there is no hope 

but there always is thats the paradox to our 

lives and world that we constantly live our 

lives until it all blows out like a candle on a

picnic table in the evening at the end of summer.