This is the story of how he sold his soul.
 

The Machiavellian man with the blinding snot of self importance running down his nose.



This is the story of how he sold his soul.



It began one day by forfeiting his sense of delight by maligning the blooms of flowers for a common weed.



"My dank little garden plot has no room to spare." He pulls the blooms down so no Zephar intrudes apon the air and in his wretched garden they bleed.


"It's a terrible blight." "This wretched beautiful smell". He says to himself. "All is pel-mel"


"You see I've conserved my precious space", he says to his little Gollum inside.


"I'm improving my life!" is the mantra of pride as underfoot the rotting blossoms reek having given up any last show of lively color they weep.


Insidious weeds in monotone instead grow.

They are barely discernible to the Machiavellian man in persuit of the status quo.


Skewing the selfmade garden ruins as proof of his superiority.

He grinds the blooms into the ground with the heel of his foot and sighing says,

"Farewell my fata morgana" "My only love" Machiavellian man grimices past an evil twisted grin.

And crushes again the Zephar flower so that he not have it prickling at whatever little light he he may have had left within.

Degrading the flower as you would a personal sin.

This is the story of how the Machiavellian's man selling of his soul begins.

by- skysidhe 2/06

That was fucking awesome.

It's raw. I don't write anymore really....Ironic that it took pain to breach an enormous writers block.

I usually find that to be the case. I can often go months without being able to write anything worthwhile and it's usually something painful that breaches the dam.

This made me laugh.

It's about musicians when they first start out they have glowing ideals all full of virtue then some how those dreams are sold out for fame and fortune.

I don't know why it would make someone laugh.