Skepticism

I plead, out of cynicism, for accepting. I am here, and my regrets are flagging. It's unlikely for me just to be harming. My chest has gotten used to my suffering. Confession is ugly and does not avail. My silence helps me feel like such an angel. My poem often turned into a puzzle. It seems as if I've been writing in a low yell. Sometimes specific notes deter. The reward flies off with a cursor. Inhabiting my waves, rapture My distress showed the flatter. Holes obscure the road. I'm escaping the old code. The drills aren't the fight ride. My troops have busted the spread. I may not have a sword, nor am I trying to keep. With a stick over my sheep to weep