In a womb of depravity I am nourishment
gravitating between the succubus of
both the linage of lambert and vagueness
that stems from the breeches of my creation.

Consciousness  of what is wielding its gravity
upon my weak state, if I just let them weave
between my creativity and formation of what
is a visualization of my creation...

I'm not the centre of this reality, but I'm the
formation of bonds that predate my existence.
Yet I'm disembodied with paranoia, of those
whispers that have a rotation upon my being.

Mother can you yield to the struggle that formulates
with this interval that comes within the gravity of
my existence. I have extremities that wield upon my
presence and they make me feel a need to be aborted.