Sometimes
There is no poetry
Playing Far Cry 3
Getting cheeched
Unlocking cheivos
Eating mac and cheese
4 monsters Yo!
MICROWAVE BURRITOS!
Chop sticks and cheetos
You need those
To keep your controller clean

I am in love with fire. I want to cut the throats of kings. I want to drink dark red wine with strong-hearted women (if you sing to me/I will love you). No God or man would dare deny me. I am the master of my own  reality. I scream at the top of my lungs until my throat gives out. Men wish to be me and beg to hunt at my side. As for women though/a wise man would not boast to a rose. The fire burns within me and I fear no other than myself. Into dark nights I go singing and all evil I greet with a  laugh and a sharp knife.

Never finding expectation to exist beyond the last known blip of the past, projected through my back, in tackled grounds, bound, in the banter of spectators, speculating the specifications of specialised  weaponry, silencing the empathy, and seducing my enemies in the isolated idolatry of their stupidity that i sculpted from the scrutiny, that was wished to have eluded me but soothed my playful solidarity to my sickly game called reap and sow instead.

We are all dead, all dead inside, residing in thriving wounds.

Left unsaid in rhymes etched in tombs.

In the lies of old bafoons

I shall not fight, myself, as they do, nor shall i defy whats right just to eat tonight.

I will fight until I am mine and sleep.

Cradled in my shrine of thoughts amiss, in the frost of loss vs reward.

I am torn, between torture and a vultures wait of the prize to pedal the pestilent pettiness to the edges of my testaments, in the truth of youth-less suicide, slicing social structures into cylinders to swing in circles around the room.

Swooning, in my looming threat of self immolation to warm the heart with shopping carts of satire, killing the sad away.

Delaying the the decay of hope.

A stay of patience in my irrelevance,never hesitant in my clever projections of nothing.

I feed you nothing

But emptiness

Shuttering in the sultry shade of my suffering and loving every moment of it.

Saying nothing too much in things of such insignificance.

Spilling the mizpellings and settling for wordlessness after a good ***** of belligerent arrogance.

Im tempted to quit but my wick is lit and to submit now, would just put the fire out and i want to watch the burn.

A toe-tapper with dapper deities dancing amongst my dreams, whilst whispering the seeds of hidden keys

Interloper of the thieves

Charmer of the fleas

A Powerful peon, seceding from the teams

Daring to believe in the sea, swallowing the cities in its grief

Dare to achieve the belief of flight and fly away

Contemplate and fall in over thought

Just do not

Stop

Doing the undo-able

Fate is renewable

Outwardly controllable

In what you think you see in the deplorable hues from the hopeful news of better days, lead astray in satisfaction to the complaints of saint-less ways

I debate creating another other place, and drifting away through space, but hey, maybe its a phase and i'm just late to the show

Last to know your nothings

Im [Spinning]

In place

Heavy hearted hands

lifting my body up

Almost filled up

And soon ill be snatched up

Self made

Enraged

In a cage of shame

Chained

To my Godless contemplation of the oneness

Smothering the somethings, I worked so hard for

But i adore the test

Ignore the rest

Blessings from the depth

Of my love for all of you

I dare to dream of things my eyes are too small to see

In futility to the world

I breath deeply

Unfurled

Upon the twisted shapes

Refracting light

Shifting states

Heightening my holographic hemispheres

Likening the charge of the heliosphere

To the happiness barging into the universe

In verse-less surges of sanctity

Solidifying the sanity

With purges of popularity

From the light-less Polarity

Spinning the tops

Of sincerity

Declaring its love for me

Take it from me,
These city streets turn grey.
A sight for sore eyes,
Every never ending day.

The looming towers,
A headline of a coming age.
Flipped the script and tore the page.