Ok.
Real talk now.
I've totally been thinking,
for way too long.
How the sorrow of my life,
has had me becoming
the demon that I learned of
while I was a child.
Redo the birth scene.
Cut.
Action.
I cut off my last hair doo with a razor.
Then the Taser of said fictions
divide my molecular compositions
into fractions of myself.

And that’s exactly the person I don’t believe.
Myself.
Me.
I.

Define that one for me again Mr. Fromm,
the nature of man,
me,
the man who acts so honestly.

The hero,
or the villain.
I don’t ******* care.
But I'll bare the scab
for all my wounds.
And each time I fall,
I pick my fractions back up
and redevise.

So long foggy atmosphere.
Hello reality?
Is this really it?
The life I believed I’d lead was far greater.
The lord of kings,
or the sultan of squat?  
A hoard of useless things,
and a chest wound
that was mustered
from a buck shot.
The timing was perfect,
as was the definition,
no,
AMMUNITION
that I tattooed on my chest.

Truth.

"I failed to believe anyone and this is what it got me?"
"What?!"

Man I need to rethink this strategy.
The majesty of thy cunning has left my soul beside itself.
And I beseech your attention, cuz.
Well,
because
I need you now.