Rogue rough at being recklessly preparatory – the coincidental forethought, and all angular a.m. eyes arisen to righteously, riotously arrive

That sinking pill thinks that it knows a thing of ten thousand that others might not
Hours, hours
Forbidden portrayal smacks of anger and angst – oft than not flighty and fights to make singular sense

Pen, parched parchment paper gilded gloriously amidst eagerly erupting imbeciles
Carry constant cutthroat industry midst eagle-eyed territory – and the room is an over-bearing apartment with creative shutdown at hand

And one artist seems to be entirely fixated again – that posthumous, none too humorous gaining which will wrestle with constant feeling
Til a next great breath contently contends, twists and breaks and aimlessly begins to make sense of itself

Her eyes and her mind are instrumentally aligned but nobody’s been taking any new notice

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