we are farmed to dis/arm.
becoming a kettle of lickspittle to better belittle the speakers less-special.
from original sin to societal din to redivisible individuals too remediated to rebegin.
we dress up to stay in.
or come out so stout in the self, that our society stays thin.
rubbing itself with deep-shelf unguents and linaments spun out from the latest in-thing spin.
ever mediated, ever expediated, ever inebriated, ever experiencing.
enjoyment sipped lustily through gripped teeth and belief stripped by flipped grief.
and where's the story read to me not through me?
if you're proudly rowdy, my larynx'll loudly reverse and upend, defaulting muscles to send your messages again to my brain... injecting insects and larvae and perfidious pain, through the one reign that remained and kept my self sane.
my voice, it belongs to you, but not how i meant it to.
bred to bleed and needing to seed, and in constant alarm are made to dis/arm and make stupidly stooped ids and entities and IDs. might as well wear shoes on your knees. or say sorry when you mean please. or say nothing when you mean sorry. or resent them for making you say nothing. and hate them for resenting them for saying nothing for saying sorry for saying please.