Ii

You're bent out of shape There are holes in those shoes that you can not replace. Gaunt like the tree branch you rode through the storm. You release your fount of harsh tones That will surely repreive your sarcastic charisma. The angst building a citidel of noiselessness inside The capital refund of your minds unease As if all spirit inside of you Has all but deceased. You are not the jolting entity You were made out to be But I see the preson incognito, beneath the flashing neon Lights of the discotheque that reigns sovereign over The other androgynous evening rendezvous'. Don't shroud yourself in the pseudo substantiality Of your undeniable accomadations. For who is the creator?