“I have love in me the likes of which you can scarcely imagine and rage
the likes of which you would not believe. If I cannot satisfy the one, I
will indulge the other.”
― Mary Shelley, Frankenstein
Loneliness,
dissatisfaction, and depression are all signs that my heartbeat sits in the background, flat-lined and breathless until I use it. Then I see it's deformity. During my socialization, the malnutrition of nature and nurture led to a
distorted development, an immature birth, an aborted process of
creation. I patch up these defects with anything I can grab until I, a zombied Frankenstein, can attempt to imitate the living. It's very
obvious that something is not right in this ambling beast. My expressions of adoration are awkward and
stumbling, especially given to
extremes of violence and overcompensation. I am quite adept at
camouflaging their deadness with faked kindness and sweet
articulations. In the world of the living dead appearances are
deceiving.
I use many things to stimulate my undead “love”. Money, words, drugs, and appearances can all be used
to bring in the deformed masses that they may “love” me. I am well aware they love my gifts, leading this Frankenstein to once again, lay
on a mad doctor's operating table to perform more abortions as I attempt to fix what can only be transformed by a power
much greater. I felt real
love once, when I sought a God that could
deliver me from this horrid process. After I
feeling it, it disappeared
in my religious ideals and ceremonies which produced nothing of the vibrant love that I longed to
possess. I know my last hope is in a divine
intervention, and as I lay down on a stainless steel table of deliverance,
I wait for Elysian lightning to strike a real heartbeat in this
Frankenstein of love.
― Mary Shelley, Frankenstein
Loneliness,
dissatisfaction, and depression are all signs that my heartbeat sits in the background, flat-lined and breathless until I use it. Then I see it's deformity. During my socialization, the malnutrition of nature and nurture led to a
distorted development, an immature birth, an aborted process of
creation. I patch up these defects with anything I can grab until I, a zombied Frankenstein, can attempt to imitate the living. It's very
obvious that something is not right in this ambling beast. My expressions of adoration are awkward and
stumbling, especially given to
extremes of violence and overcompensation. I am quite adept at
camouflaging their deadness with faked kindness and sweet
articulations. In the world of the living dead appearances are
deceiving. I use many things to stimulate my undead “love”. Money, words, drugs, and appearances can all be used
to bring in the deformed masses that they may “love” me. I am well aware they love my gifts, leading this Frankenstein to once again, lay
on a mad doctor's operating table to perform more abortions as I attempt to fix what can only be transformed by a power
much greater. I felt real
love once, when I sought a God that could
deliver me from this horrid process. After I
feeling it, it disappeared
in my religious ideals and ceremonies which produced nothing of the vibrant love that I longed to
possess. I know my last hope is in a divine
intervention, and as I lay down on a stainless steel table of deliverance,
I wait for Elysian lightning to strike a real heartbeat in this
Frankenstein of love. 
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