This isn’t written, it’s acidicly coerced,
Felt the fame of mine rebuked,
rally for a false heaven—how’d they word it, a curse.
Piss whistlingly smitten then loaded into the hearse,
should’ve juked.
Fate of ending undefended, dying to make it worse.
Back up to when that vein burst
described as a Kevorkian Nuke—
makes no difference this jester spoke first.
Fate in the eyes, can’t stop crippling the nurse
to them, another hoot,
Alleviate the frustration; see POA for his last words.
Nothing mean, just repairing past down seams, hurts
to tread through vintage puke
In order to align with the proper thirst.
Still, they are there, product of their best works.
In their diapers, they remain Dukes,
Sleuth on the scent of the wrong purse.
If it had happened sooner, would’ve saved betraying the perks.
About the Creator
Willem Indigo
I spend substantial efforts diving into the unexplainable, the strange, and the bewilderingly blasphamous from a wry me, but it's a cold chaotic universe behind these eyes and at times, far beyond. I am Willem Indigo: where you wanna go?


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