Clogging up the Tyrants Drain

We are weighed down by our limited bodies. The pangs and pains snatch at our ankles and pull us to the ground. What if? What if we were fleeting? Free from organs, of blood and bone? Perhaps we could create infinite. Or we may be stopped from creating the hell we so much admire.

If we could keep our thoughts in use, a mould of energy bursting alive, and not cramp it into life, give birth to its weak twin.

Dulled by myself, yet stupid enough to say this as myself. Present enough to realise the foolishness. Bound to an existence I must be grateful for to despise.

Who cares if we march to the tyrants heart! The fact we have a heart kills us the moment it begins to pump the blood the tyrant loves to wash his mouth with. Without a body, we wouldn’t clog up the drain.