I don't fucking know, why do YOU suppose I do this?

I got bored dropping sore ones, no more fun in lore from a war dome.
Wanted something I couldn’t afford to watch burn.
So I passed on my turn.
Something to hold, something bold to earn and turn around
Like the worms that discern your ground.
I discern my own decomposition in every bombing edition because I can’t shake off my chest
The feeling I was sent back from death
Instead try to see what’s left.
‘Nother chance to get life blessed.
Makes my head bereft because future sight lends cred.
I suture slights in every tight span,
Sleight of hand skill redirected to stand and spill.
Cram what I will in ever bundle I sprout.
Each tumble I shout is a bag of bombs!
Fragged indeed, scragged to bleed, feel what was dealt and steel melts into slag to feed.
That’s just back to Earth.
Flack to disperse.
Track my curse and find I don’t brag about creeds.
Sack of bomb poems are bags of seeds.
Wrong attitude backed by strong platitudes but I’m no moral leader.

I’m the Oral Feature.
Curing and rating all your hustling whenever I rep for clout.
Infuriating every milf’s husband whenever I step out.
I gelled with those who I suppose needed a cell to sprout.
Never sell out, declare war on the past but never forget an enemy’s face, movements or breathing.
Clever in my shell with discourse to gab?
Horseshoe crab.
For those who can never tell, that’s the punchline of clever shell.
They munch on grime, Gaia’s vacuum cleaner.
Cleaning the detritus.
Like them I was weaned on stress to bust.
Kept from the rest of us.
So now I lean on sympathizers, feeding on the crest they trust!