Open Mic: word vomit soup

The light at the end for you. All my chakras aligned with the crescent moon. Time is an ever-moving construct our lives are connected to, finding that seconds move slower than minutes, flying by us the less we do. The liars neglected truth in favour of falsity, religion was born to imprison us all and made it compulsory. I wish I was born to witness The Lord’s physical form, but I was
busy adorning the devil’s crown with thickets and thorns. This isn’t normal. I’m the crux that sticks in your claw to limit the boredom. A whimsical author. Sinister shitkicker and talker, but I bring a different aura to these dicks linked on the forums. The kids sicker than all ‘em, Stage 5 cancer since I was yay high. Thanks for nothing. My brain died after. The shit I talks pretty morbid like graveside laughter, in a morgue with the coroner over breaktime banter. Daylight shattering evening darkness. Heater sparker. I keep a llama and might just Mary a side piece like Jesus’ father. The crime scene departments most serious target. I’m really in the streets. The villain of the piece, featured article photographed by Peter Parker. I’ve been at large, front page news with bars for eternity hard to fit perfectly. Turn your sunday snooze into Monday blues, like the start of the working week. My skins imprinted with triple sixes. The mark of returning beasts.