In-n-out Accord.
A nap away from a mind’s travel.
My only outlook was the virtue of pursuit.
An indifferent lie,
And all the intel I gather is the implication
And distance in my life.
Professional Dirtbag.
Advocated Scoundrel.
A Sell-Out of Agency Respect and all my woes
Are simply your indictment.
Evil is so-to-say I have empathy.
I don’t, but a trained 86 layer of a village of hemisphere will mask and let you know.
Mental Illness ain Cuckoo is my Recruitment
For your forgotten foster.
Deathwish and macabre sewer drains.
Born from the Mud.
Abandoned by Aristocracy.
And a Gangbanger for Life.
How could I balance life with so much professionalism and tact?
I don’t care much about anyone or the timeline
Tilt it took to bring you around me.
I’ll be in my 70s by 2026.
I don’t have time for news and 21 Jump Street,
Because my aldatactic-persona seemed “young.”
67 never looked so good.
On black, brown, yellow, red, and orange.
International Rez-Dog,
You too can learn to recycle,
Instead of get-clean.
Static-is-the-Symphony; don’t you get it, dear?
I never left the table and I never host a sit-down.
Pring-my-ear.
I’ll tune in.
petrichor - archive 