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Selective Empathy

  A selective empathetic is a more sinister evil than the outright unempathetic. The unempathetic is quite small in numbers, and are under more scrutiny. The selective empathetic is one of reflective desire, picking and choosing those to be glad for and wishing to prosper based off of desired personal gain, gain that involves putting others down in the process. This level of empathy is pure submission to outside preachers, outside systems, media, literature, art, and economics, and represents a dark and fallible inner sense. Letting things simply happen, apathetic to their greater truth, nihilistic in meaning, and a walking product of guiding forces around them. A pure empathetic is empathetic to all in all situations, noticing the humanity in all. It is sad to notice the selective empathetic being a prevalent and lauded endeavor, when the qualities of such selective empathetic are thought of also as manipulation. A great contradiction in social morality and personal character judgeme

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.