power lives in the sticks of the youthful retrogrades
peddling away at toy cars and glass bombs
So much potential weakened by the seduction of mediocrity
called to the middle by pigs in suits of glamor
dancing to hollow songs in a crater of mistaken humanoids
all prying for the final meat Popsicle
and it belongs to him with all his shady remarks
and sincere disregard for the gravitational potential energy of your existence
He WILL break you
morph your limbs into callous claws to weak to open the locks
which chain you to the village whipping pole
He along with his mutiness will laugh as he warps your brain
into a dough shaped plato carving barely resembling an *****
His thievery is not a simple repercussion of his damaged limping stare
it is clear he does not want to be fixed as suffering is his favorite playmate, he waits in the faces of all those that swing alone
injecting shots of mind numbing cubicle anti-rage into his neck veins
this is his piece
as you dry heave the blood of your loyalty onto parchment for his inspection you must learn to swim
paddle that canoe out of the iridescent concrete showering of his affection
for this is not your jigsaw