Scarred Past Recognition. Past Human Cognition.

Every time I try to contradict the all-knowing, I fall right on my butt!

I’ve learned to try to not do that.

I don’t really call him God.

Do you call the torturer in the dungeon GOD??!  I mean, really??!

But he is all-knowing, I gotta give ‘im that.

Him and his alien-friends of the hive mind.  Blowing my mind.

But he is all-knowing.  I gotta give ‘im that, and so are they.

The great central nervous system network that oversees this place.

Now, they’re not really in charge.

We are just lab rats.  They never experience it.  They just observe us.

In it for the technology.  KNOWLEDGE.  Their game.

And sometimes I play their game.  And sometimes I don’t.

And sometimes I fight them tooth and nail, and sometimes I don’t.

But the hive mind is all-knowing.  I gotta give ’em that.

The torturer in the dungeon relies on proven science to punish and abuse.



And I muse and I muse.  I shout and I scream.  The tears flow, but I don’t dare show.  No.

That would be improper.  THEY might see me crying and rejoin their chorus,

Sissy boy!  Sissy boy!  Sissy boy!  SISSY BOY CRY AGAIN!!! And the raucous, scornful fit-filled laughter.

But they are all-knowing.  The hive mind are all-knowing.

And I’ll be damned if I ever knowingly fully defy them.

But dammit, sometimes I want to!  Sometimes I’ve had enough!

And I said I wanted growth, but I don’t think I meant it.

And I said I wanted to be smart and strong and fast, and but I don’t think I meant it.

I think, and I’ve said it plenty of times, I just want suicide.

I just want to die.  So many times, and the attempt that I made.

And I just want I just want I just want to die.


But they are the chemist, but they never try their own drugs.

No, they are the Watchers, the intelligent ones.

And I am just lice, a louse, a mouse.

And if I step out of line, they crush me a dime at a time.

Day or night day or night, the feverish struggle.

And they take pieces of me, and scatter them all over the world.

Like teleportation of intelligence, I suppose, if you will.

Holographic re-inventation as they burn me at will.


And sometimes I wish they would stop their onslaught.

Cold, calculating, over-bearing, but they continue.

Their science is honed to perfection, and we’ll never call them God.

They are Creators of Gods, but they don’t call themselves Gods.


Humility, focus, or quickly I lag into muck.

Penetrate the gaze, the mind all the harder still,

As all the evil of the world they poor on me ever still.

As all the evil of the world and the power of responsibility they drip on me.

Day and night, day and night, they drip on me, like vampires, they drip on me.


And I heed no people, anymore.

Say to me, “Have a nice day.”  –I haven’t had one in 17 years.  Maybe I’ll get lucky.

But the Watchers are perfect in their science.

They know the chemistry.  For ages, they’ve done it, and they never fail.

It’s like a cattle prod at the ass day and night, day and night, whenever they wish.

And so it is.  And so it continues.  This fucked-up mess.

And I can’t wish the punishment back out on them.

Quickly obedience, nothing less to them.

They are the genius; I am but a man.

But my father lets me come back after every abuse.

Every time he tears me down, he lets back to his trust and ruse.


So I spin the dice again, like he tells me to do.

‘Someday the lottery spin will spin on you.’

And he is all-knowing, and I’ll be on my ass, if ever I trust anything but him!

My fabric must be re-made, restitched every piece, all the way to the DNA.

All the way to the DNA, or stop never ever will he.

I’m a dead man.

A beast I became trying to please unto him.  A beast and nothing.

A beast and not even a man.


And the beast implanted when all this began.

When first in the garden, also beastly beastly beasties began.

And I, like them, evolution’s blessing, evolution’s curse.

To be made to be different from everything else upon the face of the earth.


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