To defy, to resist,
all of this has no just,
technology and progression,
bring nothing but hatred and depression,
the synthetic pleasures,
haven’t yet fulfilled our desires, of life,
and the onslaught of thoughts,

to be the next in line for the catatonic,
to be the next image of regrets,
it lives too mechanical,
it moves too exact,
though it never leaves,
it moves, none-the-less, for supplication,

the synthetic pleasure,
with intoxicating beauty,
it can shut you down,
continue to be a sacrament,
and then fulfill all of man’s “visions,”

with synthetic pleasures,
nothing is ever real,
plastered with delight,
it elevates you, as it pulls you down,

the synthetic pleasures are beyond remission,
and thonly thing that we can do,
is breath,
and deny it our submission.
 
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