Prismatic imprisonment, pixelated inmates purveying jail time as a monument to wrecked encampments, neat tides orderly in flux and flow; I've never let introversion deter my commitment to the occasional observation.

Rocket science! In turn reticulated content in snide and snotty comment returns a burst of emotion back to silence; Like, I'd defy in sense the listlessness of listing off my problems, in honest thought I'd rather do than dawdle.

But here I am, resenting the tests that bettered my insensitive rhetoric; Sorry, my emotions are tied to coarse moments so I just get confused. Enter, Empath.

I'd like to say belied by facts that my decisiveness was tact, or my resourcefulness was tantamount to past actions. But I detract any meaning from my fucked up wit. I'd rather wallow than get over it.

Sorry, my sovereign novelties wore off when the reality set in that stars aren't born they're made from shedding sweat and proving prophecy. The option to be offset and forlorn, or to look to the sky in sentient syndicate of the proverbs that you heard.

Goddamnit just take the good advice, instead of arguing against a good that may not well be done.
Who cares about the petty dramas that they do not want? Or to revel in the story, like a good off center comedy.

Fixed again by rigid misanthropy, the human race is just another annoyance in the day to day.
Chronologically we'd withheld a mindset, of getting old and dying, but I'd rather live on an axis of death and rebirth than just finality of death.

Context, again vexed by the perplexing rhetoric, do you even live in this reality?
I've severed most ties, except with my eyes, they tend to see the mess that we live in frequently.

But silence is polite and lying is a virtue. At least if you're good at something, something can come of it.

The End.