Talk about me in gospel or round the back wall, like I'm your living, walking, chatting, laughing, crying, feeling, fucking, real life taboo.

Your realest reality TV show, apart from there's no performance and no producer and no camera following so there's just the dramatic reality of how a man who burns from his own self destructive sabotages can't outgrow the chronic atomic bombs that go
off, and my residue radiation is cortisol clothed in tight knit miscommunication,
he's fucking red hot but all that self loath, easy to burn holes,
while screaming underwater
he's got a profile fit for the radio.

I'm the moisture that rises to create a storm,
I'm nightmare, rage, scourge, love, dream form,
blind I feel for reality, between what I'm told and karmic roles echo,
fresh lies twisted trust and led by lust,
for smooth mocha skin cells.
I forgive and I foresight.
I need to protect against my own darkness and your harmful shite.
The kinda dark, you smudge against, and, in your defense, I would too.

Etch it on my gravestone,
make it obscene like my father's wasn't.
Mark it with obsidian, carry me to truth blinding oblivion, this needle in my arm.
I'm trying peace but long to be swept away in chaos because thats what I sell, window shopping heaven but criminally condemned to hell.















© dyliberate528