My name is Dougie, but more importantly, I'm a poet. Well, that's the shortened version. I'm a prophet of reversion. My last name is Pearson, so carefully listen. It was written, never fiction, a melody's depiction of my description. It's not religion, I bridge clarity and rhythm. You're my parody if my parody was an affliction. My rarity is wisdom. Essentially, I'm a musician that's in an audition for the part of the instrument that's not precision. My middle name is Dale, like a symbol they'll unveil the holy grail. My name is never frail, mostly it's compared to Moses. Promised darkness and kept it, smartest artist and in-depth, modest poet, never wept. Tears eroded beforehand, page unfolding with freehand. Verses molded, words are worthless unless I wrote it. Nonetheless, I must confess that I possess every melody that I suppress. Here's the recipe for success. Again, last name is Pearson. In conclusion, I'm apparently confusing, but I have successfully proven my talents warrant collusion. My poetry encroachments are proven to be serpents, extremely potent, hyper-focused, rodent junkie. So have you noticed that I completely wrote the coldest? These paragraphs are the rarest, the purest and the cruelest. Compare them to the darkest. I'm crafting words, I practice a curse, chanting verbs, then blackness disturbs. On the verge of madness... what's the lesson? So, did you learn? I'll repeat the question. Beneath this section is my suggestion. Delete all your progression, impede your ascension, deplete all affection, heat-seeking weapon, then evil beckons, the needle threatens, cerebral organs, lethal injection, peaceful connection to the next step, the midsection, dreadful inspection. Again, my name is Dougie. More importantly, I'm a poet. I'm the portrait of sacred. Lick the tip of the paintbrush, wicked lips taste of anguish. It's a race to establish an outlandish. Wait, thus portals collapsing, unravels the scaffolding. What's happening? In case you forgot, my last name is Pearson, so say it a lot. It was written in pain, then smitten my brain. It was hidden in plain, spit on my name, prison or grave, riddled unsafe. But I kindled the flame, outwitted the game. First, I scribbled, then I chiseled my name. They trembled with fear, puzzled puppeteer. Strings bring strange things, I need a volunteer. Don't be scared, yes you there with the blonde hair, come up here. So, what's your name, dear? Wait, I don't care.
© dougienever