In reclamation of a childhood-mind,
I storm my sobriety with a torrent
of half-assed joints and forgotten poets,
until all that is formed is some vital compound
that links intrinsically, possessively, autonomously,
the motion of sound.

From this I'll crack open that nitrous,
in an attempt to leave eternity bare,
within these primitive paws, sweated clutch
and insufficient air,
that filters oxygen as a reluctant fool,
some corporate machine, or human tool.

It is in reclamation I tend to my childhood-mind,
to storm my sobriety in receipt
of half-assed tragedies and rhyme,

'till all that is left is this fragmented page
of that paradise lost,
on minimum wage.