Pressed against soft tickled tender touches,
That sickle scythe tone rakes my flesh,
Crying hysterically inside my cold heart,
To her a refractory response rests beside,
Look into that mirror dear once beloved,
See what might find you there in thought,
"Hear O deer,
one to rear,
pleasure no fear,
you lost sheep"
Said the sloth faced introspective zealot,
Wincing and wading through turmoil,
And slithering face down through slick mud,
Over obsidian shards changing the face,
Scars skitter on top of the flesh and thud,
Personality? Character? What is that in life,
"Get the fuck up you lazy mother fucker!, Who told you it was time for rest?, Who said you deserved the smallest semblance of comfort?, Or the gentle love of a flowery femme fatale?
To master the masculine art of musk,
The resolution to which must make men,
Mutton for meals masks the pain marked,
March on young man for mastication,
It does make for a fat boy mutilated,
Self critic masochistic mode forms molds.
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