i haven’t exactly been articulate since my mom died. grown man like me, I've always played the role of the pacifist in the worst case scenario. instead, I feel a sort of.. vindictive feeling that chants for me to get even. get the sweetest thing a bullet can buy.
revenge.
it’s about the 1850s and the western world and customs hasn’t inched closer to dying out. gaudy gangbangers on crimson black stallions, mere crabs becoming enemies of progress to each other. why can they never prosper? they’re too busy being caged in the past that was the western world’s own encumbrance. blood for blood, are they really fearless towards being a scapegoat towards a silly cause? the tongue is mighty powerful, and the person standing behind the gun will live forever. that’s why my mom will prosper in a parallel realm towards ours, one with a more sombre atmosphere than anything. i kept praying she’d come out of that coma, the incestuous offspring of sleep and death that mercilessly.. took my mother away.
what if today was the rapture? what if every man with foreign blood on his hands couldn’t be tarnished of his sins? the almighty up above must’ve foreseen this violent prognosis that’s corrupted all the good men of the land. until I can verify that my mother’s death wasn’t in any sort of wasteful vain, i’m about to undergo some violence of my own. involuntary euthanasia, if you will; this western world is about to be purged of it’s violent decadence.
gentle jesus, forgive me for the sins i’m about to commit.
