Pardon my bluntly put, but people won't endure your fits and pricks much too long. 
Even the wolves won't bite your lies. They're not afraid—they'll blitz your prongs. 
 
The same thought creeps around my consciousness like an intruder in my home away from home,
Because there's a con in my house; a mole next door. I fancy a safe space and peace—all alone
 
Contouring your entourage is a classic precocious assimilation tactic. 
Polygraphs haunt you in your sleep because you worship gossip as if it’s a situational prophylactic. 
 
Your narc addiction is narcissistic. Strangers defy perspective and get hooked into your rave,
But you can't patent my friends who know that your version of the truth is slant—narratives so depraved. 
 
Spring is flinging my mind into a paradise that finds you biographically absent, yet living quite well.
Presently, I play tug-of-war with greater mental adversities. The stake of defeat defrays my stay on the 13th floor of The Grand Death Motel. 
 
Anyone might possibly be suffering in silence behind their white picket fence and double front doors.
I know to have grace for other's misbehaviors, but that doesn't entirely excuse their acts of war. 
 
Some situations are insignificant in the grand scheme of life—we are flawed human beings,
Because beyond this world are 9 sweet treats that feed our purpose and devotional conceding. 



Thursday 30 January 2025