"Because you can be sure, my dear Crito, that misuse of words is not only troublesome in itself, but actually has a bad effect on the soul." Phaedo

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“Come eat,
“All you pretty little angels,”
And eye, will satisfy your every needs.
Erase every disease of the mind.
Eye, can do this, trust me with the mistakes.
Let me woo panchromatic sight,
And all that vilifies the soul,
Nourished when,
My investments have gone low.

Let us rally to crucify Him,
As the Word is scathed, scared,
And re-hung, Daily.
Rendered,
An inconvenient, painless fiction.
Tell me eye am normal, as
Love profits lust,
Passion hales violence,
Justice compensates crime,
Freedom, self-sympathy,
a truth ridicules The Truth,
“Peace” disguises conformity,
Mystery slights the “I” with,
An empty human palm.
Call appetite normal until,
God is the guilty enemy,
Highly blamed for tragedy,
The only uncontested reality, but
Minimalizing wondrous symmetry,
Bored of the ability to see.

Tap into the dark night of the soul,
Give me my time to run,
As elements of the chase, changes every 3 seconds.
Pour on the smiles as,
Empty promises a better logic,
Then to consider the Lord of life.
Suckered every time, for,
Only God can ordain what is real and true,
And the human hand can only pretend,
To create something new,
Then wonder why, boredom,
Dominates the view.

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