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Give nothing for the torn stitches that are greased through the ligaments of hateful torment, let go, leave the pasted, flaccid eyes with nothing to spare. Let it fly away through a nuclear current of stale breath, feeling the wings of a pretender upon the pores of sincerity, let it flex, let it give. Do you see this now? Can you feel this now? He might say as the fingers of redemption pull and rip at a bountiful youth, at a gorgeous straight laced, crooked mouth of an ambitious tyrant, a fake, a patriarch of envy. What a few lines might do, how the wrenches and spokes of words will turn, lubed to perfection rolling off the wheel of quick thoughts, oh beautiful sentiments of air, how perplexing in sound, pitch, how the ears tweak and readjust to the brightness of sound. Pleasantly falling away, cracking, creasing, flaking away at the surface as the fingernails of hope sink through the layers of despair, and the dry sweat of fate eats like an acidic avenger. Pluck at the hairs of hate, feel them shake within your being, within your shallow core, that plastic shell of lies you play upon. It's a stench that burns the tongue, it burns away with each kiss of conformity, and nestles in to the back door of the mind as uninvited as a cancer. Let it sit, let it rotate, sink in, boil away what was, and leave only what is.