The Mind: Imploding Poem by Benjamin Feliciano

Creating the perfect setting to synthesize another beaming moment of pride.
Contrasting the deeds of former affairs to those of the beastly present.
Fire from my fingertips and scum from my tongue are all I am presenting to be judged in an apocalyptism of post-modern, all-the-rage (but not new-age) theology.
Through with rating systems and those who determine what is acceptable by way of systematic removal of the muse's breath, I'm finished producing last-ditch attempts at reviving interest in the endless struggle not to cause my own death.
Inhabiting a world so obsessed with expeditious endeavors to eliminate all events not contrived of avarice.
And aimlessly acting the amiable fool as not to endanger the expectations which I've so gracelessly bought into as necessary.
Purging my head like a loaded gun onto paper but I'm only firing blanks at a moving target. It is toweringly impossible to expose imperfection without condemnation, more often than not choking me through the mirror.
Chronicles of narcotic allusions to the grander scheme of things. NO this isn't Narnia, and I mean allusion with an 'a'.
I rive and writhe with embers that ignite my heart and yet I'm colder than rain in December and I'm losing sight of the goals that once seemed so close, unfortunately I've known I was going to fail right from the start.
It is obscene, the myriad of sightless criminals groping for another high and a new cacophony, stench-ridden anomaly that will briefly illuminate their lives of tedium.
Who on earth is feeding them the idea that there is a remote chance that they can all be just as fan-fricking-tastic as every Joe and Joane they see on their T.V.?
Televisions, by the way, are called tube's because they suck what little individual-thinking mind that has not already been sacrificed to the crowd that says it's uncool out through the eyes.
Stop allowing yourselves to be forced into the square-unit of bland, take a stand, even if I disagree, I will see, that there is some inkling of remaining intellect behind your sightless glares.