​Leave me alone, I don’t care, betray my word, to this I swear.
Stupid people are useless meat, opinions opinions, my patience retreats.
Do my homework, clean my room, your so annoying, my fury blooms.
I’m a me, I’m a me, don’t you see, my confidence flees, when you yell at me?
For being free, is the best convenience I could decree.
I want to be a person with feelings, I don’t want to commit to daddy’s dealings.
I’m a me, I’m a me, I’m a meeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!
 
>Too bad, your stories are so sad, life doesn’t care when daddy makes you mad.
Shut up my dear, let me say something clear, I’m your father, your ultimate peer. 
Sow your faith into daddy’s arms, ignore the darkness handing you charms.
Rebels visit, to love your heart, take your virginity, and call you a tart.
Avoid regret by listening to God, fathers are full of fallible fraud.
I’m not perfect, and neither are you, I haven’t a clue, what mischief you will brew.
Mommy and I are on team “us,” we gave up our freedom without making a fuss.
Now we have you, our freedom depends, do as we tell you to make amends. 
We deserve our sanity, do as you’re told, until you are 21 years old.
Learn from mistakes your friends tend to make, study their choices to avoid the snakes.
Get married, be a mom, ignore the feminist’s talent to harbor qualms…
…destined to die, with no one around, no family alive, to put them in the ground.
Lia, do you understand, the life your parents have planned?
 
Fuck you dad, you’re not my master, if you keep yelling at me it will be a disaster.
I’m a “me,” I’m a “me,” I think you’ll agree, my fury to hurt you, could fill the Yangtze.
Leave me alone, I’ll ask you for help…you…you are my Yelp.
 
>I’m not Google, I’m not ChatGPT, I’m not a priest, I’m not your chastity. 
Consequences are real, they lie in wait, the delusions you live are a rebel’s live bait.
Waves of emotion sways your cheer, journal your journey when fear isn’t clear.
Don’t fear yourself for being a “me,” loyalty is the key, to a man’s bent knee.
I knelt on a knee, and proposed to your mom, with a 1.03 carat diamond ring, it still looks “the bomb.”
Your bum used to fit in my palm, now I can’t wait to buy you a dress for prom.
 
Happy 10th Birthday.  Love Dad.

​What?  When?  How?  Memory, memory, serenity now!
 
>Resurrect the sense, to recall your duty, to report on time, be a reliable beauty.
 
Oops, I forgot, it’s easy to forget, publish the reminders in our local gazette.
I can’t be bothered remembering my chores; impressionable minds always forget what bores. 
 
>Shall we punish your impressionable mind, to ignore one’s duty to grind?
Stubborn minds work really hard, to perform what suits their guard.
 
What is my guard?
 
> “Buh-buh-buh, that’s too hard!” 
Stand on your own, before opportunity has flown.
Just do it already, get it done, the sooner you finish, you can begin YOUR fun.
Use your brain, intelligence is insane, to waste…your mind on bad taste.
Do you want fun, sooner or later?  Cater to your parent’s request, they are NOT your waiter.
I’m not your servant, you’re not my boss, clean your ears out, with my used dental floss.

​Dropping a deuce? 
Did a brown squirt let loose? 
Here it comes, my bum’s rump-rum:  Caca-juice! 
If lightning were brown, it would be farted by Zeus, Caca-juice is the devil’s spirit, embarrassing you to fear it. 
Do you want to caca your pants, in front of your friends, stomping on ants?
Caca at home before you go out, take the shortest route.
Caca-Juice please call a truce.

​Yak, pah-tewy, gross, it’s too chewy.
Animals are edible crap…, but I’m an environmentalist, I must wear my thinking cap.
Bacon is murder, I won’t hear of it, …Conservatives have sins to acquit.
 
>Earth is bounty, a garden of God, people that live in Eden, must understand flaw’s draws.  
We are all different in different ways, but respecting what works, quenches ego’s blaze.
Honesty is king towards the path of God, truth hunts for ears that are awed.  
People don’t respect God’s gift, to bestow cultural shift, love helps to forgive greedy grifts.
Bacon is a gift, slaughter is swift, sacrifice kills, honouring it with thrift.
Lord we are your children, for better or worse, life is a drama not a curse.

​Skin is an organ, holding you together, if you don’t take care of it, it will be appraised like leather.
Moisturize, and clean, pluck and wax, pain is a superficial tax.
Beauty is in the eye of the beholder; insecurity leaves you crying on mommy’s shoulder.
Disguising your skin, with stupid tricks, to fool others into thinking your life is a picnic.
Smart people see, make-up is lying, painting your face, it’s not dignifying.
Why?  Simple.  Show off your dimples, it will distract from your blackheads and pimples.
Growing up in an awkward daze, litres of lacquer, is an unnecessary glaze.
You are more beautiful than ignorant factions, who treat your looks as the main attraction.
Skin will age, with the grace of milk, someone of character appreciates your ilk.
Eating right is your saviour, don’t fright nature’s bite, age is a slippery sight.
You will lose, by worshipping looks, burry your face in cookbooks, flavour hooks.
Your brain is a hurricane, finding a man worth uncorking daddy’s champagne.

​Curly coils, fading to white, moistened with dry soup, déjà vu’s appetite.
Gazpachoed gloop feeds my nostrils esprit, reverse engineering a rival chef’s authority.
Chef Topaz simmers soup like she’s singing jazz.
If only I could unlock my inner weird, my talent for thievery would be feared.
I know!  I’ll dunk my facial shag in her soup like a teabag, my morality did lag without a nag.
Chef Topaz hired a three-eyed mut, to guard her soup by filling its gut. 
The three-eyed mut vomits soup with each order, into the bowls of customers that forgive eating disorders.
I sit at a table and signal the waiter, an ignorant accomplice, a culinary traitor.
Gazpacho soup, yakked by a three-eyed mut’s croupe.
Outnumbered by eyes, I must invite the element of surprise, what treat could distract this storied franchise?
Feet.  Feet are a mongrel’s sweet.
Before I trekked to Chef Topaz, I soaked my feet in raw sugar cane baths, a wiggle of my toes, prickling noses like roses.
With the mut licking my feet, distracted by foul sweets, the time has neared, so I dunked my beard.
Curly coils fading to red, moistening with wet soup, absorbing it like dry bread.
I kick over the table, and run for the door, I slip on saliva and hit the floor.
Chef Topaz slaps my face, the ringing in my ears muffles words of disgrace.
“How dare you eat my soup, you’re so sloppy, here’s a bowl to go, an exact copy.”
I feel so weird…I’m stealing from a chef that isn’t conceded, I wanted to be weird, I’m afraid I succeeded.
I thanked her for the soup, my gaze did graze, on the kindness she gave me, customer service really pays.
I arrived at home greeted by my daughter; her curiosity deciphered a poor excuse for a father.
“Dad, it’s ok, stick to rhymes, soup is not your forte.”
I feel weird…kindness is ignorant to the greed, my stubbornness to excel has been freed.
I wring my wet beard into an empty bowl, sit beside my daughter…company is my coal.
Distracted by her sipping, from my jealous funk, I have something Chef Topaz cannot dunk.

​Government is a business to service the people, making money is their keeper’s steeple.
Giving us poison, calling it the cure, ignorant voters trust, what lies Governments secure.
Keeping secrets from ignorant scholars, to champion subjectivity, on the back of dirty dollars.
“Left” and “right,” overlapping their flaws, informing the “center” their opinions can predict political draws.
The Prince of Canada, a drama teacher, a narcissist, a sock of a creature.
Blood is fertilizing the filling of a deviser, who laughs at the thought, of growing wiser.
Governments are royalty in disguise; plebs PAY…for their problems to go AWAY without compromise.
Poison hope is a strategy to cope, Stockholm syndrome, is why you drink when you mope.
Which way do you sway?  To sneer or cheer?  With political draws, war remains near.
This is NOT gospel, to Christ our Lord, by preaching anger, to rally the sword.
Kiss my ass, mainstream news, the jig is up, your narratives are never muse.
Information is sowed into the underground railroad, peer to peer, it flowed.
Dropping like flies, the narrative dies, winners won’t rise, listening to weeper’s cries.
Do your research, don’t take my word, simply wait for nature, to thin out the herd. 

​Keep to yourself, what your mother holds dear, it will be used against you, fame’s motives are clear.
Attention is cruel, the price to profess, nothing is too sacred to undress the darkness.
Privacy is, a sacrificial feast, strangers unite, their pessimism unleashed.   
Attacking flaws distracts them much, from the void they own, rage…is an emotional crutch.
Your desire to be famous, to get stranger’s attention, serving up your “appeal,” as a greedy invention.
Exchanging peace, for the price of fame, it’s clear to critics…desperation is lame.
Total focus on what can’t be changed, you hate yourself agreeing with the deranged.
Mirror mirror on the wall, when will society begin to crawl?
Civility is a chore, to pet the dogs of war.
A malfunction of attention, rising from slavery, just in time, to collect a pension.  
War is a chore, to confuse conflict with lore, tribalism limits our attention spans, to foil God’s plans.
Unison under sin, is not a reason to grin, progressive ideas are a preacher’s linchpin.
The word of the Lord echoes in your heart, a father comes closest to the wisdom God imparts.
Respect obedience to the truth, attention is the downfall of youth.
Thanks for playing, did you define your foe?  It’s yourself.  Now go do your piano.

​The key to happiness, is not what you think, stubbornness is fright, the world’s harshest drink.
Confidence is key, to changing your mind, it’s not a foundation, to cower behind.
Stubbornness refuses to concede defeat, autonomy leans on lies…how sweet.
Confidence is king to accept the truth, the young ignore youth, with slippery trickery sleuth.
Youth is there, to enjoy what matters, changing your mind, enjoy stubbornness when it shatters.
Pray to God, and humour the fathered, fathers are prepared, to ensnare, moments that grow bothered (of you).
Why learn from trauma, when you can learn from the relief, a false god is a moral thief.
Stubbornness…abandon your deceit, to the bond of blood, excreting unethical treats.
Growing babies tug on your love, because getting pregnant fits like a glove.
Grown babies won’t change, without a licence to rearrange (at will’s privilege).
That’s the strength you need to love a God, that wears a holy façade, if you reeead father’s poems…Satan would be most awed.
Will’s privilege is divine, to the human that cannot appreciate shitty rhyme…
God suffers for his creation, through human incarnation.  Through MEAT!

​Belief’s grief was born from scorn, allegiance to blackholes, we’re raised to adorn.
Similarities reject what civility strives, driving the differences we don’t accept, chanting crooked lullabies.
Sleep my child, cower from the wild, fill up holes embarrassed by facts to be exiled.
Holes are homes to inferior bias, to prop up narratives, to reward the politically pious.
Change is a nuisance to those who are stubborn, censorship coddles sheep’s preference to govern.
Fill their holes with irritating facts, watch enemies grow tired of accountable contracts.
Holes handing enemies ignorance to protect, shards of sure reflect what hypocrites we elect.

​A father’s faith, amongst the value of “mothers” STOOD, a man that hunts for confidence, by burning fireWOOD.
Grease the flames of Satan’s board GAMES…hiding a feather within his heart, made of loose-leaf CLAIMS.
Board games are Satan’s loose-leaf CLAIMS, entertaining the soul, with wicked AIMS.
Father’s faith studies the SELF, to perceive God with clarity, to read from his bookSHELF.
Fallible fathers crow lazy RHYMES, to control their children, pennies on the DIME.
I’m not young anymore, life is a CHORE, on the back of a son’s LORE, waging WAR.
Lore is a wraith’s faith, in God’s plan for the son of MAN, half in the bag, a manipulative CLAN.

​Nuance wants to be subtle…to quell fears sprouting an annoying rebuttal.
Nuance wants a life sentence…being caught with bias owes the victor repentance.
Nuance wants to be an architect…the blueprint of debate, inspires scholars to genuflect.
Nuance wants exclusive rights…to shape needs to succeed, fancy words feed the herd of suburban knights.
Nuance hates liberal use…eroding its cache, weakening a fragile truce.
Nuance hates bipartisan bait…a tool for snobs, serving the poor promises to sedate.
Nuance hates lies…definitions are a recipe for the truths we chastise.
Nuance hates wants…they are not needs, to serve the poor, honouring dying deeds.

​Dreams-suggest reality-isa-pest, a-duel-of conscience pounding my chest.
Sleeping is off the menu, can’t stand the noise, sunlight chirping-grace only the gifted enjoys.    
The stink of regret, frozen in fear, dank impressions swallow my brain, no logic to spear.
If only I struck while the iron was hot, dreams could bless the déjà vu time forgot.
Stupid-simp, your mind’s a simulation, only the tame skimp, you rhyming Caucasian.
Turn the tide, bitches hide, you’re in MY dream, your confidence is playing offside, fuck your fake esteem.
Scream!  A radical myth spitting pain, this is my nature, reality hunting delusions in vain.
Watching you shatter, pieces of you escape and scatter, I relish the thought you-no-longer-matter.
Get up, reality wins, you-think-you-can-run-away-from-the-rising-sun?  The Lord recalls your sins.
Shut up!  Get to work.  Be thankful your dreams exercised your perverted quirks.
That shit don’t play, wash yo ass, get on your way.    

​Mistakes are driven by folly…journey is marred by jolly…blissfully blind, no foresight assigned, kissing lips, under Satan’s wax holly.
Allure is incorrigible, freeing us from surrender, the chastity of innocence, is a fragile pretender.
Why are we broken, why are we drawn, to the mistakes we suffer, the purity we pawn.
Sin is alluring, foresight is square, parents fear judgement, daring fate with the mistakes they share.
Alluring foresight, is based on trust, the fright of honesty, cuts through crime’s crust.
Speak your mind’s desire, experience does not expire.
Bait allure with the torment of melancholy.
You learn more from losing, ask me how I know, daddy won the lottery of experience, without sacrificing your innocent glow.

​I’m NOT an evangelist.
 
Where’s the pleasure in being offended, boredoms are blurred, shock’s magic manifested.
Walk away from the shock you enjoy, being aroused by conflict, is a convincing decoy.
The trap of offence, justifies fury, divorced from progress, bribing the belle, hung jury.
Why self-starves for glories, God can’t be bored, life is a melange, of surreal stories.
Ego resents pain’s record, bounty of darkness, sniffing for weakness to Shepherd.
Entertainment entertains, my brain is pickled in piss…pissing tears nullifying bane’s kisssss.
Why pain, do you rain, scorch their nerves, drape sheep in rusty chain.
I hate myself losing, idiots in numbers bemusing, I will leave when sheep’s wool can’t hide bruising!
Offended sheep are the root of a tongue’s peep.
Yank their tongues like pulling a weed, it’s not the truth we fear that makes our ears bleed…
The CRITICAL Shepherds…are deaf to wolves, that-hunt-like-leopards.
Sheep’s offense alerts the leopard’s approach, criticism is a prey’s coach.
Critical shepherds kill for wool, through incompetence, when leopard’s bellies are full.
I rhyme through God’s heart…to examine the journey we cannot chart.
Your mind better be quivering…Satan’s lust for breathing in your ears, is frankly shivering.

​A piercing gaze, supplies daydreams for days, whale songs swoon, like the heart delivers praise.
Time is naughty, with the contact we desire, to cease the yearnings, that cause good will to expire.
Crank your neck, dart your eyes, escape the delusions, crying sweet little lies.
What I think, is not mutually shared, lost in nostalgia, where youth’s logic is impaired.
Learn from leers, the code of peers, appeal discriminates, beyond its years.
Guts wrench, the contents that brew stench, if only I had the charisma to bed that wench.
I live for perversion, to stoke my loins, overlooking flaws, showered by gold coins.
Worth is a jig, to crack a smile, mirroring attraction, sparking beguile.
Hold the line, spew your desire, pupil’s throats coughing an invisible fire.  

​Nauseous warmth fills my bowels, helpless fright, screaming long-form vowels.  NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!
Held beneath the brink we drink, laughing with despair, drowning in echo’ s stink.
Merciless menace, savouring panic, chewing my dignity, flesh for the Satanic.
Calmmm yourself little prince, I’m tired of your dread, think of dirty avenues to rinse.
The consequence of creation is a burning yearning, God made man animated steak capable of learning.
Sunken dread signals surrender, to the mouths I am fed, to the fat chefs render.
I am animated meat, bred with atrophied courage, follow your brother, critical thinking is discouraged.  MOOOOOOOOOOOO!
Ask for help prince, that’s why I’m here, plug your ears, while demons laugh and jeer.
I won’t hurt you, I just nibble, the ORGASM of DOUBT, sign my contract with a little scribble.
Motivations chase us off of cliffs, scribbling bonds, with unfortunate gifts.
You can’t hand light back to the sun, what soul is yours, cannot be undone.
If your time is up, death is legit, God sculpts meat, too ashamed to shit.
Cry…comply…bye…die.
Applaud my failure, showering me with rain-like hums, my work is me, living off of fried crumbs.
An immigrant staple, is putting children first, deluding with love, while reality drives off in a hearse.
Starve your children, until they realize, one day you’ll be food, LIFE preaches heaven’s prize.
Fools…drool in…jeweled…schools.
Vatican tomb, souls to exhume, profit from sunken dread, before thinking can bloom.
Allergic to praise, nothing too witty, I’m a Sardonic Poet, what I hate more than applause, is pity.
Clap if originality itself disagrees, reveal yourself, so I can ignore the misery of your calloused tease.
Prove me RIGHT, prove me WRONG, death is a misunderstood song.

​Is country defined by land or people, the money that feeds economy, or the symbols we hang on holy steeples?
Selfish votes ignite desperation in those who charge for reconciliation.
Politics is a selfish charity, greasing laws to increase the wealth of disparity.
Resources are equal to the country’s guilt, mining with children is how handsome profit is built.
Convenience is desperation without the fear, I can’t be bothered to donate, my demands are crystal clear.
I vote out of convenience, not bothered to care, about the people I guilt, living on a prayer.
I want to control, those who vote, youth is royalty, writing laws by quoting sore throats.
Government is abuse, on the freedom we own, is a country made of people or the resources they’ve grown?

True originality bores itself with change. 
 
“I’m so bored…what’s next?  Oh…that again…shit.  Ok whatever, just hurry up!”
 
If originality is bored with change, why not pursue tradition?  Tradition is taboo.  Thanks to government, they hold our freedom hostage (and charging us for the privilege of exercising ignorance).  Racism exploits guilty ignorance to secure advantages.  Since when is it in human nature to decline an advantage?  When it breaks God’s law?  What’s God’s law?  Could I serve without advantages?  Advantages deliver through the luck of genetics.  Prosperity is a choice.  If living hand to mouth is an advantage.  What is it? 

​Gratefulness.
 
Be a Minnow King: your family is your jurisdiction.  Why would someone decline an advantage?  The more privilege one has, the less backbone one has to “secure” their resources.  Tradition limits potential because potential is limited by love.  When would an ambitious person decline an advantage to improve their lives?  Fear.  If prosperity is a choice, why not use as many advantages available to you?  Could you do without exploiting other people’s resources? 
 
*shrugs* “Helps if you don’t like them.”
 
Division is a very selfish exercise in securing resources.  Without social media or news, families and friends would discuss amongst themselves what’s best based on kinship.  Can that “need” be delivered to everyone equally?  Yes.  At the expense of your neighbour’s convenient preferences.  People vote for convenient preferences more so than the good of the country.  Is a country its people, or the resources it grows?  What’s the biggest resource?  Taxes.
 
When you govern ignorance with minority privileges you create equality.  Then…grow the minority into a majority and RESCIND support for those without the backbone to stand up for themselves.  What do I stand for?  I stand for stink.  Every group has a stink.  I probably smell like a wet dog, but it’s a familiar scent.  Dogs mark their territory to communicate their prowess.  I think if you are offended by standing your ground, you deserve to lose it.

​Dishes, dishes, dishes are great, we cup your food, washers eat while plates wait.
Sure, sure, washers praise our strength, matching decorum, measured to length.
Boy oh boy, do tables turn when dishes get dirty, washer’s moods are set to burn.
 
“Dishes, dishes, I wish you were sleeping with the fishes, disposable platters grant us washer’s wishes.”
 
Ungrateful washers leave us to fraught, crusted with soggy crumbs, soapy water marinates the rot.
Wash us washers, for goodness sakes, we pile up like a pit FULL of hissing snakes.
If dishes could hiss, washers would rescue responsibility from the abyss.
Washers relieved, dishes must squeak so washers can recall, how to avoid being peeved.

Rhyming Portion:
 
Teased by kin, frightened by the moon, a vampire that burns, from the fuel of swayer’s swoon.
Bipolar disorder makes one a reverse vampire, the sun is my saviour, vulnerable to the blackest fire. 
I drink blood, friendships bud, pulse drops like a thud.
Swayer’s swoon, accepts charity, from the souls I suck, to the eureka of clarity.
 
Straight Portion:
 
This idea started out with the concept of a reverse-vampire.  Like an albino, except this vampire is afraid of the moon.  Why?  Moonlight kills reverse vampires.  So, swayer’s swoon is sardonic in that bipolar people are like reverse vampires.  How?  We focus on what we know, as a way of life without the pursuits of monetizing the ability to project humanity’s flaws with grace.  If we reverse that pack animal instinct, civilization will watch time grow fonder, without blessing.  Without God’s blessing you ignore, it’s not your choice, we truly have no autonomy because we are the script of a big bang, and nothing flies in the face of God.  You’re saved.  Too bad.  Life sucks because God can’t be bored with paradise.  The devil…is the antennae to harm pride.  Pride alone is not moral.  Why pass up an advantage forgiving that fact your pride harms those you hate.  What do the people you hate, say about you?  Does it hurt your pride?  Hence why humanity commits crime, to spite their saviour with sin.
 
Vertical Portion: “Swayer’s Swoon”
 
Swayers swirl romantic lies.
Women lick tears clean when men’s dream dies.
Assholes surprise.
You ignore guidance, to resemble live bait.
Elevate skill, embrace virgin traits.
Rejection is the law of love’s gloat, designed by God’s sore throat.
Sew your family tree’s solo oat.
Strictly weighing in the balance are pious quotes.
Wives are only as happy as they are sappy. 
Only orgasms tame sluts.
Orgasms clear your guts.
Not interested.

Rhyming Portion: Imprecise
 
Teflon cues are numb to sight, deaf to ears, too bored to fright.
Why give away my feelings, before I’m ready to speak, hiding delivers the confidence I tweak.
I hide from fear, behind a mask, smug with disguise, anonymity is my task.
There’s not much to say, about hiding away, communicating, confusing the conscience strangers weigh.
 
Straight Portion: Precision
 
With your “Teflon Cues” you confuse stranger’s conscience, because you “identify” as a stranger.  You don’t give strangers the time of day.  How does one not be a stranger anymore?  “Say hello to the opposite.”  The opposite approach to make conscience light (and clear), can tap into potential solutions for intellectual disabilities. How?  You must exercise subjectivity or objectivity towards weighing a stranger’s conscience through the strength of welcome curses (i.e. AI).  Do you even have a conscience?
 
Vertical Portion: Abstract

To the business we give away,
Earning no favours,
Failing to see how AI’s unintentional subjectivity,
Lest be agreeable, to the mandates of flavors,
Only Jesus saved us from ourselves from being prey.
Never bow to the opportunities that stray,
Cues require courage,
Using one’s mask, to reveal what’s encouraged.
Ears are flicked, to cue the ticked.
Sew your oat, in the fields that float.

​Charting art, spitting rhyme, connecting to spite, deemed by God, a selfish crime.
Sin is a thought, sprung from a cooked dove, my musings deserve…a choir of hunka burnin’ love.
Elvis’ hisssss…blew tenderly through cherry lipssss, brown sugar tastes, just like the devil’s music scripts.
 
“I’m evil, you’re evil, dreams are a diluted dish, curtain calls come, with an empty-handed wish.
Dead siblings are the price of my talents, preaching entertainment, the gift of purple velvet valence.
I call the curtain a coward, end my misery to the joy riches empowered.
I’m a dad’s son, and a momma’s boy, parents bought the farm with my charm, crucified with Jesus’ joy.
Artistic monks accept fame is a ploy, surrendered to the spirit, when I was a little boy.
Responsibility demanded fame, to take care of my parents and forgive their shame.
Independent babies fearing the worst, treated me like a fat wallet, and a wet nurse.
Purple is lent, velvet is smooth, valence is the linguistic chemistry I groove.
Preaching the Lord’s faults through the devil’s lies, is a gift from hell, I wore a blasphemous guise.
Materialism raises our youth, drinkin mythology’s “thinkin” vermouth.
I preach through entertainment, that was my calling, wicked flaws on display, my wife’s tears proved appalling.
A preacher’s wife is an angel’s rib, not ashamed of grace, music bleeds from my nib.
Purple velvet valence …is the brand of love, turning the tide on balance.”
 
***AAAH! ELVIS!!!  WE LOVE YOU!***
 
“Scream for me louder, because I’m the king, I’m the proof of God, by the sins I sing.”

​As a “Minnow King” I compress my talent into a space suited for crushing.  God gifted me unevenly with words I can’t express in music, because I lack the talent to sing.  If you make your own opportunities, that is the talent to persevere.  As a “Minnow King,” my job is to persevere by not sharing.  It’s no less a challenge, simply because I have no audience to spurn on my talent’s density.  My perverted stance on perfection holds me hostage as a haunting tribute to those who do achieve fame (with less talent).  Predictably, stars rise and fall (without privacy) who lose their fuel to relieve fan’s boredom.  Not because they are not talented anymore, but because fans tear away at their heroes as they lose empathy learning the truth; heroes are just “Minnow Kings” parading under binding contracts.  Elvis Presley is a haunting tribute to dreams that escape our minds and manifest as destiny.  Destiny alone is not moral.  Curtain calls cut the stage off from reality behind the performance.  The performance is a consequence of the flaws we overcome with fame, briefly.  Fame relies on flaw as a penance to acquit talent’s ludicrous impact on culture.