THE OPEN MIC CYPHER

[Mitch]

H out the hope, replace with a daily dose of D, for the dope fiend. See her in wide screen, fly by drive by life night'y night time, ight' i'm fine, wipe the iodine
off my dying mind, moss on alter side, wash and dry her halter top at my place, I'm waiting for the next itch, Sex with the memories connected to her vestments
by the voluntary etching of my senses. Symptoms of sickness existed since 6 when i witnessed my wench of a sister consenting my cousins relentlessly touching her,
kissing her, hugging her viciously, ripping her, bumping her rigorously, rubbing her, unresistant she loved it sadistically. Bugging, a victim of her fucked up
fetish, my head was sunk in depths of an infants, like a mother that regretted her gift cus' she hasn't slept, her kids will get her dinners, sudden death of the third,
or the first and second grow sinners in the absence of her compassion, she'll let him go quickly in comparison, to drowning in city street rain with bags on
his little feet, it tears her from her soul, she knows that hell awaits, but if not she saved her children for heavens sake. Windows are cellophane, she pears,
through the glass of cathedrals where heathens celebrate. Wearing their ignorance by the faith, the homeless men set up outside and stake, each a violin case,
and a mind for strings. They play in harmony with the shining faces on the Krylon paint.