on the button.

Standing on the panic button,
frontin in a backwards stature.
Immature rapper rapture happens ever after.
Zak masters math in paragraphs.
There, stare at that.

The last full-blast disaster I mastered plastered my cast faster than a nasty rasp crashing past a throat coated in cancer,
and you're still standing there staring at me like I look like answers?
I'll take a chance and advance askance of the lances.
Romance is dancing through death circumstances.
Put your money where your pants is?
I can't sis,
imagine
this:
wallet twist,
amiss,
then no exist.

"I make a fist with my wrist and a pistol," he said.
I made one with hand, and then was dead.



"And sometimes, if you listen closely, and there are no sirens around to drown him out, you can hear that boisterous motherfucker rapping still. It's fucking terrifying, but some of it is actually pretty good. Shame about the getting shot to death thing, in retrospect."

GORE
RED
BLED from the head
transitory glory imploring pouring crimson rain,
stain floors with pain,
can't take no more.
Just the facts?
A bullet's path pulled my fucking skull full apart,
my heartbeat depletes,
my lifeforce,
divorced,
weaker,
vision dimming,
bleaker outlook
to hook my last breath.
Fade to black:
DEATH.
Now in a world without eyes to size it,
percepts detect apex rising.
I inflect intellect tightly on my spite,
then
RISE
from the rubble to make it right.
Its
ALL I HAVE
I'm grabbing at thin air,
I have no hands to land on what's not there.
I NEED A GUN
as he runs out the door.
REVENGE
is my engine, it keeps my form.
Barely corporeal I steal moments from opponents, one by one.
The trigger busted, dusted me, but its just begun.