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budding locks of dread

with forty ounces until a sickness might undermine my thoughts of authorship gone… fascist demographics for the adverse advertising elite… what a crock of shit… with darkness in the skies and prayers to St. Michael, the smoke rises in silence… as sleep bathes the glowing watchers staring out… my thoughts give rise to intention… no false faces Here where i have stepped upon my own fetus… i am the spooky voodoo for which you deem freak… there is no god that i might answer to, but my own face reveals sad displaced feelings for the damned men and women who have bled for safety’s sake… can i breathe or is that just some made-up fallacy? i try to keep company with the mutants, but find i cannot out of fear and spite for their bastard traits… forgiveness for my own grows weary… then the storm hit the coast, and we weren’t coasting on charm anymore Here… the energy to restore my mode of thought has been misspent in awkward situations for long enough, but power is back in my fingertips today… time to throttle the words out of my head, and give my catharsis what it needs… the vivisection of filth is equivalent to the do-goodie’s syndrome that perfected itself as the havoc laid everything to waste… potent displays of humanity approached the boiling level for the slight few, but left us all fairly untouched…
guess the cut short is upon me…

Thanks, khet.