[Objective]

This arts' unique
when it starts to speak in tongues on air weakened rum,
my lungs leaking bong water hailing the same plate I'm eating from.
This' the post mortem ramblings of a dead person
past his peak while hidden within said version
is a child with bleach:

I cry and screech;
average seem too hard to reach,
and have a dream that scars unique, it's dark indeed.
A Stark contrast to what "marvel" means, or half of me's,
as good memories die like couples carved in trees.
I can fight myself but need Moses to part the seas.
If it's true you make your own bed I guard the fleas,
I'll cop out on what stopped Napoleons bombing sprees.
No shame, it's margarine,
that raw cold disease where bread and bold moves exist.
Sucks I'm too cute to quit, unless I stoop to shit
and fantasize on which muse to hit like I'm new to it.
I'm seeing things like Phoenix wings
wondering who's shoes to fit
when the clues adrift.
Damn,
I need a music shift!