Fried

Pied. Baked. Fucked and done.

Measuring time by fingernails grown long. Can anyone tell me where it all went wrong?

I ring help and wring my hands on a phone saying… “hello?”

I lost my armour long ago. Now I’m covered head to toe in a lost image. Ironic because I never paired but always tried. Lying down, a painting. Dharma bums from paths crossed and times lost. Awash was the sea of unseen tragedy. This boiled sweet fruit is but a glittering end to all jokes. No smoking, acid taking, righteous heart felt loss. The life that we all used to have- but it was taken. The language is wrong, that language you use: lost lives? Lost?! Loss sure. Subtraction, infraction, deliverance and death. Strike down, this system of grid work. Power and pose and proven peace to lodge a bullet into others. Dead pact. Deathly- loss. I am lost for words, the LANGUAGE. Is not loss. Is not lost. It is murder and misguidance. Lost handshakes, and perspective turned rotten and recoiling sick strange sad worlds. Smoking rubble, repercussions, deep shuddering earthly heaves. Heavens cracking with thunder. Bombs dropped. Drumming in the deep. Mines unswept on ocean floor. Sunk and sickening. The unchecked locker of fledgling anarchists. Put a hand out. Prevent loss. Perfect the art of saving lives, no loss in trying. No loss in honest giving. Put your face on. Push on.

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