vintage notes, leftover — verse1

No longer visit these job gimmicks.  They’ll be ended

in blemish, my position 4ever defended.

Pyramid construction, something Orwellian,

I fear it is induction, not clear if there’s

instructions.  But either way, I’m finished

with this meager pay.  So I write like every line’s the

last one.  And I’ll stay in the chair until

I tap done.  Increasingly harder to pen

time for mySelf.  Gather dimes from a well

so I can disseminate my stories and tell what

exactly I’ve observed.  And what I think

I deserve.  I’m on the brink of a swerve

into a more lucrative containment.  A

sovereignly intuitive derangement.

But what type of Artist do I want to

be?  ‘Cause one in a famished battle’s a dog, diseased.


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