Sucking Embarrassments on Every Nerve I Embodied
?

 

No one comprehends a fraction of my stupidity, so who do I propound out phrases of hope?

To become a narrative voice of own consciousness is to be freed of their retainment–

convincing. Writing is so raw–intensely intimate–tells me to rip my skin and

serve sound vessels–I crumble up in disregard: my missing concern of

vibrant voices suggesting dimensions of various perspectives to my

particular flesh. Screw you, Soliloquy–what worth are your words?

 

Pathetic! Not sure, to me or to them–to blame or humble. Now

I itch, disgusting nature. Silence. A Scan–pause now, pause

now, credence in flesh #3 made a return. The tempest

was sinful to conduct doubtful scrutiny. This is my

flesh that I’m serving–only way the flesh could

ever exist! I exemplified my peculiar rawness;

I overflowed my uncanny soul; I gave out

all my ever regards for everyone

who gave me a pump to

flesh out again.

Cacophony–

stop it.

You.