V1

“I Could swear these rakes were strategically placed”
He’d say, thievery claiming was a means to evade.
He’d frame his bed of nails with the pressure treated balance beams of lack of better judgment labeled self victimization.

These days? Eating off the enamel. Acquainted with leverage, trajectory of the handle,
the language of the garden, complexity of the angles, and lessons from ample self directed trauma to the mantle.

Example: being bogged in a stoicism chamber too long to disentomb appropriate sources of anger. And when they achieve the pinnacle of their self awareness, they seek to inflict damage on the very people you cherish.

Blind to the whisper of piper, tines in the slipper lifts a soil sifter Right in the kisser, these middle finger dissertations are a young man’s game within The dome shaped infinity mirrors of age

But how I was complicit in creating the conditions I so adamantly was wishing I hadn’t slipped in,
And how do I console a hunting for goodwill that resulted in a garden tool shaft to the grill?
Shit.

(Hook:)
Love yourself
Stop hiting yourself
Take care yourself
Be good to yourself
Forgive yourself
Stop hitting yourself
Stop hitting yourself
Stop hitting yourself

V2

Given an inch, I’ll take an ultramarathon, restraint in a mason jar, default on the bearer bonds. Bet the funny farm hot wiring a flux capacitor. The upshot is a most abrupt withdrawal of a catheter. Shit to propellers for an armchair traveller but Welcome to the tour of the sausage factory…

Where the mud splashing is anything but subtle mastery. Where we grind past experience through culpability. Where we Reconcile maitri with accountability so ill at ease with the willingness to be sincere what with all the bees in the beard vaseline in the mirror, the fleas up in the cheerios, the dagger stares of yesteryears.

We fester fears till the chest is clear; every lesson be a wisdom tooth extraction via bombardier. Taking self directed kindness for weakness till pride takes it’s egress and spinelessness is deep-sixed

But how I was complicit in creating the conditions so thoughtlessly counter to the outcome of the mission? And how do I condition someone so willing to play the victim that they’re both worthy of love and the firmest versions of disciple?

*hook*

V3:

A cycloptic monarch sounding off an out damn spot, with the internalizing rot of an exogenous shock and is the belaclava’d hangman still worthy of love? Crushed under that guilt, a pin-drop becomes a caber-toss. Maybe not. Maybe baby steps to a vacant plot lend a hand in picking off the borderland sticker shock.

Taking solace in the multitudes contained: embracing Jack Napier to bolster Bruce Wayne is a serrated game. Nauseating is the pay to play--shadowboxing with saving grace to save face. Mediations between me myself and I confined together for life so often ends in a fight , over a portion of pie so Rarely cut into tris, granted some fun and games, now we’re all missing an eye. In the valley of rakes, all too easy to despise the manager, the exile, the fighter of fires

But how was I conditioned into being this complicit with a critical erosion of a critical relationship
And how can I start the conversation to go from unrequited tolerance to full reciprocation,
arriving at a mutually agreed upon peace of mind. It can be brutal both inside and outside, inside and outside so all we can do is be kind
all we can do is be kind and in time

*Hook*