I realise … / A quill pen [so grand]

I realise with my poet

[W]ry

I ran a

Way from

The basta

‘ards

Who surf

Failed me

Into prison

In that awful 

2

003.

No long

[H]er.

No more 

Escape –

Is

M

For me now:

Right – with 

Quill pen so

Gran

D –

The truth not

Thru’ the

Lays of 

[He]art

But the lines

Of

Every

Dense doc

I shall

Ever need to

Reed.

Poetic

Not my skullset 

Any 

More – if ever was:

Just

The plane and

SIM

Pull mechanism

Of suspicion unending.

We are

All

Guilty.

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