We’re almost at the definition
It conceives itself in your mind
What of it?
What of it still?
Stiller than ho?
All aboard the hype train
No trained physicians know me
I’m all lost n shit at the upside
Same exact words
Because of how I typed them in
Same exact thing
I have a feel for these minutea
How is this even possible?
Two seconds changes the entire poem?
But it’s not the real thing
So we don’t know for sure
Staven winkies n crup a craugh
He hellbacks n shits his terds up high
Nigh invincible, his disgust for maturity repletes his soul
Male poetry male poetry
All male poetry
The commitment to music
The commitment to unbreakable sin
Is still weak
We are exercising
We are weak
Here and there and some times his brain goes
But sometimes the gun is to his head
So all aboard the third person
They know him
They know him
Know your audience
It’s basic literature
So all the schizophrenia out there is…
What, exactly? And who? And who shares this shit?
Who actually share their pain?
That’s so unethical
Keep it to yourselves, terd shit terd shit terd
Keep it to yourselves
There’s no pattern there’s no rhyme
I think they like destroying me
But it doesn’t come easily
So I win the war of attrition
Many good stopping points but what of the author?
When does he stop?
He wants to accept his readers
But they don’t not harm him with schizophrenia
Fucking freaks out there, man
So many bad people
I have a writer’s bug so expect more soon