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Fiction Afire.

No gain without pain.
Struggle generates value.
Anything worthy is hard won.
Work harder, not smarter,
so your job is never done.

Natural inclinations, talents
and passions, they’re just
never good enough.
My inner resistance
to the herd, the authority,
must be overcome.

We need mediocrity,
a population watered down.
Smother the soul
till the light burns out.

So it goes
when the status quo
is a rope fastened
around your throat.

Just the way it is,
has been
and shall always be.
Enslaved to a system
that knows better than me.

Fuck you, I lost me
in this land of the meek.
Now I grab a match, your lie,
and some gasoline.

Blaze away.
Fly again.

Burn through
false skin, fiction afire.
Rising above
this ruthless quagmire
that is always gripping my feet,
dragging me down.

Our work should be passion,
talent guiding our path,
clearing the road
of inner resistance
nurturing seeds awaiting season
buried behind these masques.

Vessel carried along
by inner flow, riding the crest,
rising above the trough.
Fueled by my own reasons why,
the means are surmountable.

If there exists a how,
I shall find it;
if not,
then I shall create it;
if I cannot,
I will be more than happy
to die trying —

and you can count
on my swift return.

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