Pummelled to the deathly : ready but never ready
Unfit, unable, utter promiscuity

An Artist carries the wrong heart altogether
Far-fetched yet… bolstered to the bones of his deteriorating mental health

A sinking, lonely soul holds these invisibly laid aces up his sleeve

Pierced by everything – colliding and vivacious car horns, the people that he loves sitting in constant and uncontrollable reverse

Could’ve, should have done

No way home, though he is at home – wherein this snaking, sneering bed with venom on has become… a thing of agonised memories

Failing at these simple things. Where have all of the good people gone!?

From him, still in him. Screaming to breathe for one first time, like a jester minus his natural-born delivery

A living, seething cliché only minus any of the real acknowledgment for now

Homegrown poses a most singular threat – waiting to return to only himself

Where Poet knows best

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