Untitled (first draft)

His fruitless haze stings dreadful dreams,
They do harness the hungry darkness.
The harshness evolves, as my shapeless faceless words revolve;
Around the skew screws.
Stale pigments that poison harlots.

Cracked, flowerless brains of a mouthed yesteryear.
And so with a petty pick of papers;
He tips.
The digital bigot, and his distinctly distant disdain.

Fistfuls are wishful, and he the solemn soul;
Man does much to dismiss you.
Failure isn’t a chosen option,
It’s something he was frozen into.

This soothing flavour is the bland mans savior.
Until his Cadbury vocabulary finds treason,
To touch up; the torrid salt less seasoning,
Of a tasteless Shoreditch penny mans reasoning.

A hollow tomorrow arrives snide,
The stench of sorry sorrow.
I have arrived in tech time,
Music strings alive, with the tune of Tech 9s,
Kids putting to bed the already dead.
Something his teacher said.