The cursers, diviners, astrologers, devious spiritual guns up for hire.
It’s sacrilegious for these talentless freaks to be alive, helping others covet and camp upon the constellations to foretell and influence events.
Scaling the rusted fence
// poetry
I guess we've been pierced
By the skin we seek to embody
I guess you've erroneously rehearsed
Through the flawed escalators from Mr. Nobody to Mr. SomeBody.
A sterling genuine momentous storybook
My steadfast story based on true events
Has words blotted out and replaced in despondency
Part of my shirt torn apart as I scaled the rusted fence.
Atleast I have most of my shirt,
There were plastic flowers in the lawn
They sold me the role of a king,
While tormenting me like an uninstrumental pawn.
They always deal with a sleight in hand
Seemingly meritorious brushstroke pretty for a life
The dagger of deceit dripped blood behind backs,
In a reflexive response to stimuli, dispossessed their knife.
I see blood on their stone walls
The bloody stone masons crafting fables
The table that built the rusted fence called "society"
Then bound the world in deceitful cables.
The fences were firing friendly
It was never to protect you after all...
Their lousy schemers sold it to me like a ponzi scheme
My t-shirt tore before the climactic fall...
Yeah, but I rose again with a knife in my back
Spectacular I even got powers to kick up!
The cup of uncalled for suffering I drank bottoms up,
Now, in the turn of events I'm bringing yours in a tub.
It's always some old, rugged, rusted, imprisoning,
Swaddling the world in orbs of accusation and guilt.
The author's reciprocating knife into the liar's belly,
The wicked tyrant stabbed deep with the hilt.
Maybe hypocrisy is entrenched deep in your eye,
Maybe ya’ll are too prideful to grapple with your end;
A fraudulent back whisked in corruption to the bone,
This is the part to the Supreme God you’ll tap out & bend.
