I don't have anything to say
There isn't a message to convey, to tell you to love without conditions
Secret clauses in the fine print
You hit all the measures of a lifestyle you simply can't afford to flashback to every time you did have it, every praise in the world with no working hands over hot beams of light under foundations never quite requited, to which all obsessions found here
Fitting every word of written page into twelve scripts of Sith because I can facilitate your lust for control
Even when that's why you tried to learn the language of brokespeak,
skill-sets of better creatures
Just to show the world you'e got some gravitas too

I'm aimlessly saying it doesn't pan out
Those games were only fun for the story and accreditation in measures of success
Building on Act One through Seven in expression of the values of marksmanship

Fun was some after effect resigned to a notification system of correct direction
Arbitrary pan handling around the corner of street cars

How did she get there from trying to figure this shit out?

Every amalgamation of a tortured cognition screaming to dissociate
Maybe the abscess knows more than what we think we think it thinks we know, you know?
Maybe you deserve better than what these people offer and it's just your mind who's on your side?

Maybe you're wrong though and the therapist your Medicaid dropped you on, which held you waiting upside-down for months should, could, and would tell you that you're traumatically unsound