The Plight and The Fury (POEM)

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Fingers covered in ink, mind like a contraceptive, make the music something you can step with but don’t overdue the loops, shoot hoops with Versace boots betting on military coups whilst down in the blues.
Feeling some type of way, ready to take over

The setbacks have been severe, wondering if people still care, I’ve been going hungry no food in the house and no new clothes not no new friends, sharp razors and lose ends

But here I am still full of hope, some nights it’s hard to cope with all the potential, destroy the next phenomenon and then burn all that’s sentimental, because I’m invading kindle because my words are mentally ill, went to private hospital but couldn’t pay the bill and I went to a graveyard with time to kill

Even Still, I’m not who I used to be before, ruthless as I fit the bill, ready to die, ready to kill

Not a man around who can stop me, not a plan that’s sound that would drop me. The sick part is that I’m not that bad, I whine about what I had, cry for my dad but nothing to be ashamed of

They mock me and threaten to give me a slug, but they are just bugs slightly perpendicular to the whole I dug, lots of crud and lots of bullshit, sometimes my brain is on empty but the ideas flooded just won’t fit

Sometimes I scream so the angels will carry me away

God might be great be he hasn’t answered anything that I’ve said

I’m going to tell him about himself the day I die, and I’m going to create swords of every tear that I cried

Every day without electricity and going hungry, stare down the competition because my friends love me

Talking shit like my mouth was a toilet, maybe I never knew who I was enough to even kill myself, food for thought so don’t spoil it

Mad decent on wheels but we have to constantly oil it

 

And this is my ambition, shaking so much that you think I had a condition

But it’s anger repeating in repetition

Been rejected to so many times, hated and disliked

To the death I’m sick, write pieces with ice picks

Before I sat where I sit, I was an distorted animal something like a bull pit

Pressured to throw in the paw and quit

But now I’m trending like a Twitter fit

Roll my eyes into the back of my head while throwing up signs with my deformed fingers
Throwing pitches and this one is a sinker, but as my product falls to dirt there are so many things I need to say  but I don’t know how

I’m in my zone but I don’t know how far I’m allowed, but don’t kill my mojo

Might not be the best but I’m banging my chest

More hyped then the rest, humbed to be alive after four attempts on my life

This is the rage, depression, love and plight

Of Antony Day Grandin

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