crate of torque

what am i grateful for when my thoughts lay awake in scorn , hate is a chore

elaborate on forces eluding a label or even a name to be worn

stomach’s a crate of torque , is it the medicine or rounds of anxious thorns

do you relate to soreness around tight jaws from foreboding intakes of war

wish i could apply my pacifist attributes , high-calibered ammo’s on tap

instead i drag up insurgents with strategies based in attrition, wield a pickaxe

master restriction , reminisce on flatter spikes , sleeping but minus the sighs

conscious deep-breathed fireflies only sometimes can quiet these invalid lice

hatching their larva , too advanced of a device to be cured by the bashful polite

– D K T


life ends. why pretend

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