The first playlist of a written verse. Nothing until it’s read.

The morning starting off hectic, after my dad hit the beer a couple of times and let it hit. He started up in a snortle lashing out like a loose horse. That’s the trouble nowadays, there’s no real cause to pin-point it’s just a stirring that altogether explodes to pain the canvas, their nightly soul with flash-bands of moody bands.

No conscious appears to make them feel inclined to weld the loop hole that lashes out, at last without a notion in hand. It all goes by somehow in desperation that’s exactly where it all is.

A desperation that fumbles with the coarse sword just to find a throat to slit. A word that perhaps urns the bowels that are boiling with an ill meal or ill preparation of some burning vile syndrome.

The rest of the day they take out to wear out the last skin of the sorry-dom. A character devoured by the last worms, inklings of yesterday. Yesterday, when our heart was throbbing, wild, young and careless. Running free against or with the wind as our will to power bent to every command we uttered. Every burning sentiment coarsed through our vein and we had a handle of where it led us. The transparency of where we chose to let ourselves rest, if we had any one to let our heads red against. Than we did as we’d like to.

To tolerate the characters their. Their belittle ways that avoid confrontation slicing off the dough of our perpetuated masks. For every single one we contest against the white board with sign a signature with a paucity of breath that refrains from lashing out with lasts breaths. No, he didn’t care for anyone else. But for his own triumph in the marksmanship of his sword. Whether wood, a simple tool that caters as it’s wool flings in the giants breath. I sit back, kicking toward the dust where birds fling onto the table. 

 

 

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