America's classic
Retained suppression spastic
Alone, alone, alone
Masks appear on the wall
Comatose status but still alive
Breath, the smell of death lingers
Consciousness a myth of reality
Grabbing at the door to escape
Then falling into red space
Floating, trading data with a robot
A gray voice shouting words of fate
From behind your temples
Protruding in a vulgar twitch of agony
Separating the halves of the mind
Already dead and put to rest
Asleep in the stated graveyard
A cursor slowly moves across the screen
Blinking and palsy in motion
Form without substance
Spasm dance from Lord of the Flies
My hand really hurts
My mind's eye lifts
Short skirts to expose
To violate
To penetrate
Detained to be that primal scream
Roaring, roaring up to be beaten down
Rushing past the rows of columns of uniformity
Falling flat on the face
Remain beaten down to the point
Until you can stand to be taller than the opposition