Not so perfect weather to fly

Life's number twos,
and throws.
Thrusted fucks,
and bow outs,
leave energies,
grubby,
pissed,
and begging for loose changes.

Tinged with green,
fried monsters,
that rise up amongst us.
Planting seeds,
thoughts of others entering,
sacred,
naked,
spaces.
Even if the depth is non existent.
their no better or different,
to any other,
dirty bastard.

Relating this bent,
presently outa sorts,
broken,
fuck wit thinking.
Not to drinking but to over consumption,
over milking.
Will ya chain these hind quarters,
and beat thee to a bloody mess,
waste not this discomfort.

Enough knowledge for opinions?
Slammed between,
fat wedding marches,
and dreaded men,
who write shit prose on their cool phones.
This ain't making a difference to no one.

Exhausted fumes,
leak,
from emotionally,
challenged,
bleak thoughts.
Lacking faith and direction,
secular,
internal,
religions of I.


Not so perfect weather to fly.