Sometimes, I sit and wonder is my brain wired in the wrong way.
I'm working all day on weird word play, using premium unleaded instead of the previously embedded stinking repeated cliches no one needed.
Watered down con artists feed men outdated whines, have them ******* diluted delusions and fractured facts that don't add up to good math.
I'm not a beast that beats better techniques. I’m the man who eats whatever he reads to replete my muse’s muscles with the protein she needs along with her emotional greens, and random natural fruity scenes,
but there are not enough nutrients to save me from the atrophy of humanity’s inability to grow and love.