maybe you’re 24 years old but the clairvoyance of my mind can read, in text, the preoccupation of your own filled with mad love, materialistic inadequacies, heartbreaks, relationships, the standard practice to contemplating suicide, stewing on the embitterment of fleeting thoughts from actions made by chief adversaries, your appearance, your attire, your insecurities, your petty grievances, your suspicions of infidelity, disillusioned to the poisons of life and the fragments of clarity the fog of quietus hasn’t quite reached the imprisonment of your own creation and the blue jays of despair haven’t came pecking on the crumbs of your viability you haven’t been through enough ******* yet, through and through, to let that all go the callow is seeping out of your bone marrow and written in scripture on your 12 year old face