Deception.

It’s the, I can’t do this ish no more.

That I just can’t believe.

Just as I can’t merely run from what I’ve rightfully been deceived.

That wrong is that I say something I simply can’t do.

That I’m pushing it heavy pedal to the limits of perceptive breakthroughs.

That perception is my self-subjection of a wishful objection.

And the object of my affection is far from perfection.

That this perfection is made of a bundle of false imperfections.

That these false imperfections are solely part of true defection.

It’s deception, the devil of ones own perception.