Set yourself down upon right round and witness something with sizeable behaviour – to finally, barbarically, act like a societal someone

And one stressed man semi-excitedly interjects midst his own distanced downfall
Writes to be remembered by memory of a particular break in line, monument in time – distasteful and awfully awry by way of utter chaos and needy creation

He has been waiting with word-of-mouth for weapons, this unexplained thing of suggestive insinuation
The rhyme aside screaming rhythm has been killing him – causing his body to speak when he sleeps for one first time

Just. Will. Not. Let. Him. Be.
Bygones have gone, yet he still breathes uneasily, typically tethered and torn and worn right the way out
A fair degree of degradation, utterly paraplegic and sinfully broken

He broke ranks with all of his lessening best friends in the whole snide-eyed world and misses them terrifically much as you can ever even begin to imagine – all of these moments in nighttime wherein they sing and play and drink by the hardship of another person’s possible downfall of their own

Why does he feel this redemptive responsibility to oneself!? The funerals are coming and it appears to be seriously funereal and surreal – he is a walking, barely talking version of a silhouetted better person

A heavily suited someone special with all of the necessary sentiments only nobody sees it anymore than he – very little to say the very least

He does know that this requires certain arrogance, a mighty amount of dumbfounded plagiarism to the pause-for-thought cause

Of a strife time that no poet truly chooses for he
Perceived as a poet only down upon his eternally bewildered knee
Proposing to suppose… something, anything again
Why can he not make these baby-steps make sense

At the end of a tremendous tether and hanging on to hope for held hostage

Should’ve been semi-incredible and he feels it in every last inch of his sizeable being

The far angrier Beowulf has been rising – when the line goes useless again, to relish the cream of the crop, won’t stop, cannot stop…

Ever-ready by delicious default

Dreaming to take all of it back, yet this dream is but a realm of dramatic creation