[Eŋg]

that second line is a bit insistent, i'm not entirely sure it makes sense, either. i might need to think about it more loosely. i'm a loose thinker, though. maybe i'm just not that smart. both of your verses were pretty enjoyable, certain. 'tone in... serotonin' was clever, the images of convulsing to pulsing beats and a mirror in the neck were instances of raw imagery. you later use 'bleed' again to describe the ember, and repenting coal (an interesting prosopopoeia in itself) recalls 'absolve through our penitence' before it - i appreciate the needlework. some of the short sentences in your first verse grew into a sort-of-parataxis for the second, which i thought was the stronger of the two. the first line rattles off a pair of interesting ideas which builds 'fire speaks to lonely men' perfectly.

Retired, weakened. Lies and preaching.
Wires weaken, fold and bend,
but this marionette remains high-strung and tightly wound.
I'm lost. I might be found. But it won't be by a righteous crowd.

i'm going to throw you a bit of a backhanded compliment here and say this reminded me a bit of me. the rejection of god (or at least his guidance) is succinct in the next line and being 'dust... off with top button scoffs/kisses soaked in collagen' are two dope visuals which remind me a bit of black. both compliments, ultimately. cohesive throughout. not sure what i took from it, to be candid, but enjoyed the deft writing quite a bit.

i wasn't as mad about witty's verse. it wasn't terrible, i just feel you consistently run the risk of writing something a bit insipid, or uninspired with beaten rhyme schemes, cliched imagery compounded by the efforts of a lazy fuck. your rhyming, while competent, strikes me as very one-note here: i can hear where a line will end before it does. you might even say i predict. in a word, there's little to surprise me in the writing which is sometimes so insistently prosaic, despite the rhyme. the 'cold' is more likely to ache than 'decay' your bones and have heard as much as you can hear about weight on shoulders, you trap yourself with your scheme, as in 'prison's in stealth' which was an awkward phrase i did not favour, but also recognise it wouldn't exist if not for the way the four lines ended before it. on the plus side:

In my youth writing was my life, I felt like diction was wealth
But how can I make people like my writing when I'm sick of myself?
So I write a few lines upon the page and then it sits on the shelf
Because I can't decide who I want to be, it's ridiculous...help!

this segment was pretty good. something i could vibe with. or could have. still can, to be fair, somewhat. get inspired. paint a picture. spark a thought. all that good shit. it's not like i'm proud of everything i write, but i'm confident there's always a bit of art in it.

no idea why you'd remind of this 18 months later. lol.