I despise my "sorry", violence at all my parties, I've come to witness my "sorry" scars me and made me tardy, remaining thick and hardy, tough skin is thin from within, and all the rules that I bend- can't hide the ink from the pen, foretelling all of this sin, it's kin to being shoddy, and so I reap what I sow, and though revising copies, can mean a different plotting, It still can never stop me, be better off getting bodied by those who wish they shot me, and so the rules it's taught me, is that this life is blotchy, dotted with spots of false knowledge, that closets me as parted, just wish I never started, what I can never finish, watching my words diminish, while disses get replenished.