[Objective]

Shame.
No love next to where crown stood,
he stained his sweater with his own blood.
Dead to self reflections' life hook-
"Why" took more excuses than lies could.

Self pitied arrogance bathed in self absorbed apathy
crawling through corners seeking death of your cavalry.
Sword against metal echoes ethos fighting methods,
dreadful viking left hooks where logos cripple Aesops.
Cased doubt paid out face up. Mazed crowd.
Caged flight
as trends ends abrubt.
Friends and stuff
ignored for late nights stagefright.
Such a martial artist if he was trained right,
and other ego bruising words that just ain't right.
Blank canvas. Paint it white. He knows the portrait,
secret subject, keeps it hundred as it grows distorted.
His art surround the thoughts that mortals orbit,
certain hearts so dark it starts to portal morbid.
Each word is exorbitant fuel in accordinance to
his subordinate view of a morning with you.
He doesn't like coffee but thinks the equator is cool,
such a catch - the only fish that swims in this pool.
Twin sins, left and right. Eat SlimJims for food.
Too much weed.
His brains' a TinTin cartoon.