I eat my skin in little chips

Find me in my labyrinth

The walls of which are made of fear

whose only means to guide me through

are fleeting like the years

I’ll waste

I count the bones of many men

And type them in a sheet of sorts

I set in stone commandments: ten

I file them under my report

I GPT my wedding vows

When I‘m a dad the trees are dead

I will not trade my kid for cows

The british queen: pristine, laid eggs

I eat my skin in little chips

I pick them off

And bite my lips

I leave a trail to cast a myth

I always pass through labyrinths

This peace of me was never meant

To ever be, I never dreamt

For when the weed, at least I slept

The pencil bleeds, the hair unkempt

And where I chuck these lines of poop

They find a host that holds it true

And if you knew the things they do

Even then, you‘d hate them too