I was the forlorn 3rd born, BORN, durin a storm on an early morn. with a spirit already partly torn. BORN, selfish. allergic to shellfish, YET, selfless. helpless. and the Lord knows. I can't help THIS, but it's the ink in the pen, and the secrets within that's got me thinkin again, about my DRINKIN again. and the certainty, that this is certainly hurtin me. where this impertinent pertinency's WORKIN to curtain this worth in me, INADVERTENTLY, until I succomb it from no way to numb it, then thinkin nothin of it hurtin my stomach as I plummet, into a darkness, BACK, into a land of the heartless, RIGHT, where its darkest. its there, WHERE the angels roam harpless, and the choir SCREAMS, of the prior things of a higher being to inspire dreams, where there, its fire greens for our higher teens when we desire things. where we conspire schemes to acquire means cause they're not hiring. and I'm tiring of the dire scene, where, to retire clean, you gotta, ALL, but sell you soul. and, FOREVER, leave your tale untold as you watch their HELL unfold. its there where the thugs stress. just too obsessed with what's best for our success, to give a **** less 'bout a drug test.