Atrocious

Written for a female but didn't have one so had to improvise

Haiku

Why U Wonna Hate

Woke Up Like This

Streets

It sounds like rain…

Beautiful Pain.mp3

Welcome 🙏🏽🥊JABZ💯
Keep or delete? 🎸🎺👨🏽🔊🎶
Trumpet melody at the end I kilted ￼it lol🎺🥊

Chaos🎧World🥊💯

Runaway Luv

Composed, performed, programmed & produced by Wavesword "Marsy" Mars

Lyrics reproduced by the artist:

Here they come now, to cleanse the line;
They might’ve chosen your footprint to dispose of.
They chose mine. 
Is there a redeemer in the shadows?
And am I worth the redeeming?

It’s the principle of the stick:
What can martial peace can also be
The wand of conflict,
Just as easy, just as quick.
A bird on branch that might’ve made
All men and women free, sang them to
Common captivity; so stimulated dissent,
Which by exile is policed. Yes,
Shadowbans to deliquesce and decease
Shadowbans to keep the peace,
Your eviction from the heart so subtle that one day
The front door you once opened to a Lincoln’s Inn glade,
Your heart a love-loud Strand now opens on a moor,
A waste, a plain greyed; perhaps that verdancy once
Shared-did-we was ever in grip of emergency
Maybe my trenchant affections seemed cruelty, my infinite variety
A selfish invite that you forsake common society.
How freedom welts unless wet by responsibility
I know I remain subject of someone’s affections,
But I fear it is just the Islington paper readers.
They’re afflicted with Guardianism, a pleasing
Fear that someone, somewhere may be unhappy;
The cloud is their silver-lining, something I was
Taught by a Valued Customer.
Was it because I was alive to such hypocrises
That I refused to make Reese’s piece with them,
That I was from your heart de-fammed and shadowbanned?
Or did I do something worse that I can’t recall?

I keep those birds on my windowledge, in the kitchen
Sometimes even in the shower, in my bed,
And they hold most inquibblable dominion in my head,
In whose physics they might as well be phoenix.

Before you ask “But how can you know
Your shadowban? When knowing makes it light?”
Oh I don’t know, nemo knows , and
He, with his rhetorical sublime, has made me sure.
Was it when I dwelt on that one pop-up there?
When I hit the regal blue tang of tweeting emission,
Making some unpardonable admission? At any rate
I’m afflicted with tweeter’s memory loss, as are we all, to a point.
The outcast at least has their knowledge
Of their alienation to exfoliate the imagination
And feed their darker ego.
To have been outcast without wish, 
Without spectacle or ceremony
Sentenced not to death, but to forgetting
Well, then
Send me to Mars for my shadowban
And there, low gravity, that I might grow tall.
And there, at least, is bliss – no one but me.

While you may trick the mirror as to what it sees,
Your shadow reflects you honestly;
Look upon this shadow, my forsaken substance,
Aren’t we ugly?
I exist now beyond the frame; no more apt to be judged
Than the indents where the murderer sleeping lay.
Or is it an inharmonious order I’m removed from?
Perhaps I’ve been tuned as perfect a fifth as the fifth from which I swig,
Cut from these parts where suspicion’s the only funded craft,
No, here I’m returned to hope, generosity, art; all in nature’s sternest nature.
And what art; for now I have practice perfect the skill   
Of walking through a hall of mirrors without leaving a reflection,
For now I return to a greater adventure; as, given such preference for
Life on a net plain where pain can be so managed, surely
They are heroes, those who will embrace an everyday life.
This shadow can’t W1’s jungle ride.
How he wishes he could pass wind through a shop porch chime,
Make you think of a happier time; with home feed dreams to occupy,
I’d train even as a tormenteer, if that meant
You’d turn to me again, and your anguished gaze do aught but pass through.
But no; here, below the globe, a shore, a beach
With no ocean attached;
My spirit casked
In the bottom of the hourglass,
Where the sands of time claim
All differences in the end.

Verseus

Mars For My Shadowban

One wonderful day we will dance together again.

Woke Up Like This

Clinton Topps aka Mr. FRESH