Third person.

give me reverie and lay down the walls of my trepidation. let my cadence shake the foundation inside me before my headstone becomes scenery without substance. show me the spoils of war and let me decide on discretion or vanity. the cost and the resolve. I am suffering from fermentation and my antidote lacks the poison only contrast can provide to give perspective to my peripheral questions. I tend to my wounds with vice but years of indulgence has given me immunity and all my habits became placebo’s. the cracks are forming beneath my silhouette and my profile has lost it’s camouflage. more is needed. but more is never enough. if I bleed will you give me the stigmata. will the thorns dull and let the swelling heal before my open casket apology. I’m only a boy.