RMC

Never change does the extent
at which people don’t really see.
That inwards I am torn askew;
underneath agony.

My view is a true blue is aspect
that stains my brain to great affect.
What mom and dad do to you
can make you a wreck.

Wars of the past turn skin blue
views of what the world meant
when it went absent of accent
found today in a tortured soul bent.

Crimes of the past will surpass
the svelt of sharp ties and belts;
but crimes that cause emotional scars
under sharp clothes are always felt.

So wrap up your baggage and leave
underneath the briars and biting ticks
in fields you’ve run under the sun
there’s always facts affixed.

I hear a glock clock on me
a heart strike the right side of me
the light right is trite but might on me
be the seed of my defeat.

In the dark an art would do me better,
than the old cold gloom of stormy weather,
maybe we can steal vibes and tribes forever,
touch the crutch of a must we lie together.

Whether it’s the leather that tunes
on a sprite of June will the November moon
grab a gleeful gun soon;
at night as I sleep tight I think of it too.

And the jest of a vest as I sleep to test
whether my heart pumps blood in my chest,
we could forever slide forever past a test in jest,
feel better than every other kind of mess.