Gruesome clots
of concentrated tantrum
Donated air tubes
who function to ventilate
That can airrigate the condensed spaces

When properly running
Executing the wasteful obstructions
Which aren’t much fun
when freedom’s an outing
All this idling and itchy blood,
festering in a wet sponge,
In an open container,
Where walls hold daggers.
And the guides are all blinded to the path
To make my own path anyway
Just if we could find hold of the string
Which was the pull upon my stride
And my pride’s woundedness proves
A fallen walk upon the obstacles
So it appears, way, must stroll more rhythmically
Dropping the scholastic endeavors
Because it’s all becoming pleasure less routine
Tensions streaming through a dam
And now it’s all recycled
Plagiaristication, even in the present fiasco
Can’t a task be a task? A breath, a breath..

Infinite masks approaching the infernal sacrifice
Transparent as glass or crystal ware
Prepared upon the dinner table
But I forget how to swallow the liquid
And soothes aren’t soothing
For they all appear as deception..