In the great discomfort of bombs
a purpetual phrase entitles
an enigma, transforming a parallel
song into a rendition of a
counter argument in question.
Was I the one on trial?
Did I murder them?
I regret to inform you
of my stylistic brian.
For it has numerous traps
I think I work hard
and then I fall
in more remorse decreasing my value
and loosing grips with reality.
What I have made myself
is an image of crime
against my good fortune
and I lust for a joyous time
when I may be accepted
into a group that is all for me
and I am all for them,
That is a real reliquary of inquiry.
I have leveled enough buildings
of beauty in my mind.
I have encountered enough defeat.
Then the group turned away.
Hell raised, engrossed me in shame,
a sewage star in guttural ravines.
"We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars."