I peddle distortion
Disorienting fables
The tales of a psyche
Wrung dry by the hands of strife

I year to convey
But true words are minced
Into powdery sentiments
Worthless, idle, and baffling

My thoughts are strafed
And pelted into ruin
Diminished and mute
Unworthy of scorn or disdain

Christen me
The king of half-truths
Of static mutterings
That drone on unheeded

My mind is a mire
Most strive to avoid
For trudging forth
Would mean certain death