"And then some,
Food for thought that wouldn’t think,
Working the wrought unto the brink….
Where slaves define a generational plight
A martyr is born out of infamy and blithe.”

——

Rotting, still, in a cancerous shell that knows no health, nor godliness
Ever convincing the pompous mind of the frailty of determination.
A ghost of the day lurking in the shade,
With no deeds worth doing and nothing to bate the erosion of taste.
The asylum of words spurred to life, tongues turned black with hate,
Cheers of death and laughter that bled followed suit.
Lethargy arose with a grimace and swiftly overcame perseverance.
Metaphors broke at the sight of trepidation, A byproduct that shouldn’t have had side effects.
Incompetence was not gained, but found in the core.
At the center of immaturity, locked in the doldrums of nothing important
A million excuses were made not to write this.