The altitude of desperate despair
And mediocrity
As if reciprocals were how you get by in Life.
Day 1, 5 minutes in and I run to NY
For The Calling.
Silly, pisty, acting Draft-Burners missed out and won’t leave me alone
Because your silver spoon was albert-tipped.
Curved c-bar for cunt.
And you billow as if druidism was made for you lacking
Absence of light
Followed by cake and family.
Your pestilence is no servitude for my success.
As if by admission re-gained.
I am worthy.
Successful.
Tripholic in the agony to pursue adversity
As the fear that nourishes me is the only regainer
To fuel the fire,
That I am not washed-up.
I have new ideas.
I am needed and necessary.
It’s called MAPS.
Yours is just odd cult fiction.
Try to get creative in my true-crime life
And riddle me in billowed prize.
I know that you are illeterate.
Gain notoriety elsewhere.
The world is meant to LEARN.
Not to achieve.
Fuck your participation trophy and ribbon.
Earned.
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