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Unconscious Controlled Critique

A state of subjugation so infantile, yet so disruptive, could the layers of conspiracy go further in its existence? Purportedly, a state media ran through the filter of difference and excitement leveling its own demise for short term satisfaction to the overlords, controlling our every thought and idea to the very core. Is this state ran media a consequence of governmental control, supposedly through the use of democratic means, that theoretically can be shifted determinant on public perception? Partially, yet the media runs further than what we believe it to be. As our eyeballs are ripped out of their sockets to give monetary incentives to this industry, it concludes a multiplicity of ideation that exists on its own, and wrapped around to affect the very authors themselves. Entertainment, as we uphold it, levels a perspective relevant to a minority of beings, centralized in a very few cities, and then controlled by a smaller few individuals within the business sector, and

My Precious One.

My precious one,
That lies in the darkness of the sun,
I fear, there's nothing I can do for you.

I've remembered your cries,
I don't know which ones are lies,
I can't seem to see the real you.

We can't look back,
I can't bear to see your eyes sad,
I will fall victim to the blue.

Green swaths pave the road to your soul,
My brain, and my heart have taken a toll,
Precious one, do you bid ado?

No more lying;
Let's live with the stress.
I know this relationship was once blessed,
But now, its tainted.

Our minds were once painted with swerved willow trees,
And all of their dancing leaves were connected through one branch.
And at that time, we had beautiful visions of having our own ranch,
But these were all lost to the moon.

"There are things you don't know about me", she said,
And together, we split the last of our bread,
As she tipped her flowers upon her head, "goodbye".

I sat there, listening to the crunches of the roadside,
Watching her chariot fly by,
Crying in the palms of my hands as she left.

And from that day forward,
Crucifixion was directed toward,
Everything that could've prevented this distress.

As the dark rays of the sun, 
Still glimmering and piercing any sense of "fun",
Had created me was something I would never forget.

My last hope for a new, sat and wept.
As I lay on the table in my haunted keep,
Digging a hole to a different world in my head.

Sacred was the drill that sang a song,
And that song was the last I would hear, as my ear fell off.
I never wanted to listen to the cheer of music ever again.