They battle for everything, so clear reason into that depth, for humans’ mind differ, every which way of it all. There are other ways, but what one, is likely to get all to see it?

Battling in shedding blood, for the peace, for enslavement, picking a fight for just the feel of blood rush, and ending with a new chapter, filled with nothing, yet only one word, is left to read.


Mindless are in choices in deciding. Man goes against nature; it burns to the ground, living the man homeless and so where to go, soon it will leads to death. Man goes against man, common in dreams and futures ways, but the hatred for the glory, the sickness of being outdone, takes a new matter, leading to one man or both, unsure of what is come for them.

Yet, one thing is clear, they’ll both die, learning that nothing was changed for the better, everything stuck on the facts for the casing differentiation, leading for others to do the same, causing pointless disagreements be said, leaving nothing done and never moving on.

To what would man have left to fight against? What is left to destroy? Traveling through the lands of emptiness, finding answers, that never were real, thinking, that falling apart inside and out is all left to do, and is it? On the battle fields, would it matter at any rate, to speak about, and thinking it will do anything?

The remaining fight there is now; is man against himself, inner struggle, deciding in failure or action. Letting the skies fill with poison, as the mind and body fight for right.

Falling at the seams, into becoming that even a human form anymore; a melted mess, trying to gain whole once more, is all there is left.

Praying to stand again, for what? Hoping to see again, for what? Reaching for the gun, for what? Screaming to be heard, for what? What is there, for any reason in doing what, if there is no clear message to see or speak of, when beyond doubt, that’s far from the truth of it, but sadly so close to the lies that are given.

Struggle more and maybe, just maybe, the fight will mean something to someone, that gave a damn at all, as the world around all, nuked to a wasteland. They did it, man against nature, man, himself, lost. Knocked out, from life, as a whole, into pieces of their once selves, begging and pleading, sheltered away in their own hell, where not even Satan cares of. Nor have a holy being dare bring up in normal conversation.

In a world of now, heaven and hell, only amount to those, whom wished limbo, our home was gone, and everyone had a place, for the minor differences of themselves, not amounting to anything.

To only cause trouble, in life from an infant to the gray old man, who with somber eyes look out the window, hoping for something only lived once, in a book, of words made by wild gossip of the fearing unknowing.

Words that’s all they are, and done so much, that some find as justice, but also misfortune. A grieving body is all left to see, fighting to become whole, pulling away from the screams that filled the air, the blood that stains a reminder of the past, the hope blowing so far away in the winds some miss it even now, and the gun still at fingertips away.

Waiting, just waiting to pull against man or to the foes, because everyone needs one for one reason or another, even it is never explain as it is. To against natures will, man’s way, and one self’s goals, they’ll fall. Just not how people see it.

Nothing else to the end of it, now for in so, living this way, and in so, or even just does, is to wake the fuck up.




Soft Construction with Boiled Beans (Premonition of Civil War) by Salvador Domingo Felipe Jacinto Dalí i Domènech, 1st Marqués de Dalí de Pubol/Salvador Dalí

Made in year; 1936 (Rumored to be 1934)

Location when painted; Spain

This was a somewhat request by Big Black Hat Man, I hope this was what you were aiming for, because this was I blind project for me. Still I hoped you enjoyed the read.

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