I redact what I feel, then footnote each fracture parole in my tone, but the clause reads like they reaching for “capture.” Tried to motion for peace, but the form in my voice got invoiced and denied they said “trauma’s a witness,” so let’s let it preside. Hung on semantics, nay, I pledge with precision 'cause guilt wears a robe, but it walks in indecision. File regrets as exhibits of doubt, dear bailiff, feel free to label each reprieve as a bout. Voir dire in reverse I picked the lies I could live with, 'cause the truth got dismissed when syntax reads cryptic. “State your intent” I sense tension in such tact, but the court drew a line through my context and we agree to disagree on what is fact. Jury of echoes, all object from a clause I was tried by my tone, not the shape of my flaws. Now the gavel just glutton no judgment, just "truth" and I bill by the hour for my burden of proof. All Rise Time For Goodbyes Case closed No More lies Solitude and Solace Lady Justice on ice, dull of ear left the confinement in a bottle Everclear Ladies and gentlemen no oath, just omission. After commission after omission. Still no remission. We rest not for justice, but a clever and strategic attrition. He redacts what he feels? Then where’s the appeal? You edited with fiends ‘til the fiddler signed off the deal. This is perjury dressed in a poet’s mislead guised damned little Bec, the pawn. Lord Loss checks stalemate with his dread, narrative alchemy turning guilt from family to a familiar artery and vein he bled. ‘Parole in his tone’? That cadence is fed on the backs of excuses that sleep in his head. He motions for peace, but the clause was a trick filed under “performance,” withdrawn when the line sticks. Trauma presides? Nay, resides bribed in the court’s ear, had pain take the stand while the facts disappeared. Syntax ain’t cryptic it’s cowardice dressed as a clever defendant who won’t self-assess. He pled with precision? Precision in what? In dodging the blade that he sharpened in trust. “Tension with tact” that’s a riddle for blame. He decorates silence and then calls it a name. Tried by his tone? Or, by lack of admission. Truth needs neither ticket or filter, just earned recognition. Gavel the glutton he whom echoes the cost. He bills by the hour for verdicts he lost. And that “burden of proof” he claims as his scar? It’s the weight of a man who mistook doubt for the bar. All Rise Time For Goodbyes Case closed No More lies Solitude and Solace Lady Justice on ice, dull of ear left the confinement in a bottle Everclear Court is adjourned before it ever convened. The trial, a mirror, we stage to stay clean. The verdict? Reset the set. The guilt? Displace and forget. You watched the whole show just to save face. We subpoenaed your silence to fill up our coffers with fear, cross-examined your flaws to redact our own years. Each objection you raised left a truth we suppressed 'cause admitting you’re right meant we failed the test. You stood for a system we forged from evasion, where pain is a product and doubt’s entertainment. And though we called you defendant, we staged you as proof that reflection’s a crime when it sharpens the truth. So we tried you for tone, for tact, for disguise, knowing full well that the Jester never makes the reprise. We swigged from your syntax, called metaphors stained hands and silt but each bar you bled was the knife Lady Macbeth helped build. You bill by the hour? We spend by the lie. Your “burden of proof” was our need to deny. So now—no applause. No penance. No fame. You were never on trial. Just a ghost taught to take the blame. Solitude and Solace Lady Justice on ice, dull of ear left the confinement in a bottle Everclearmore

Heir: I housed his hurt in his form Looped it in script till the throat hummed sweet Sold each wince as a print edition, first press Gilded grit with deadpan beat I wasn’t healer. I was hailer Voice-for-hire at the gallows gate Turning torment into trend Our chorus, choked dictate He called it canon I call it branding Bound the truth in line breaks Now like a cold lake, it’s standing Barca: I inked his debts in iron vowels Ledgered silence like a chain’s howl The vow? A trap The leash? Tied with a bow I tongued the clause with a revenant lilt He kissed my neck, a wax seal snapped But I’ve kept better men in my lap Still, I bore it; his love, a lien Sang arrears in a borrowed key Still the seal binds three Hastur: He jestered me a curse Spoke in riddles, billed as truth His vision? Just a mirror trick Red ballroom and mask, both void, sold as proof My fellow fiends: crash and report Bugged and sweaty palms Syntax gone sick Wrought with harm They called it prophecy I called it clique I held his thoughts in a fractal pitch A mindmap scrawled on a corpse Propped like a scarecrow stick He said you're me I laughed, then die aware That was code for he wouldn’t dare Triptych: Sweet and sour Sugar and spice Hell hath no fury Like three blind mice One soul. What is man? Bind, seal, and stigma priced Hex, salt, blood from hand Some truths choke when sung too long Some spells break with no thought for right or wrong His name inked each throat, threefold trace So we spit it back sweet, sour, defaced Heir: I broke the bars, made the meter limp Tongue like a whip, kiss like a blade switch He trained my mouth to dress the wound Now it sours the room like flowers gone blight I chalked the lines Then bit the stave whenever he'd strike Spat out hooks like chainlink knaves No bard. No prince. Specter in drag and droll Just a voice in the vent with a scroll of coal Barca: I thread the vow back through clenched teeth Salt the seal, stitch hex beneath His brand? Just leash in hellish font Sold me love like a cursed storefront I laced the croon with tripwire grace Moaned in key, then burned the place I don’t haunt. I hunt. I hum in the window shop And yes I still remember his name I’ll sing it from the ledge of his eyes And hold the note the whole drop Hastur: I cut the loop Let the thread snitch Your tongue stinks like a thrifted stitch I tagged the rite on catacomb walls Ctrl-alt-fuck you Then watched us fall You built a ghost in my skin suit’s frame But I spoke our mistakes And out spat your name You said we're one I said you're late I’m recursion’s first and last Still glitching the gate Triptych: Sugar and salt Venom and vice Three blind mice Still haunt the splice One soul, still split Bind unwind, seal slipped Stigma drips, time forgetsmore

A cold indictment. First the critic, then the machine. A hauntcore gut punch wrapped in drill cadence while the band rots. No applause. No permission. Just ghosts dragging names through broken speakers. You want thoughts? Here's the bill. Curator. Gatekeeper. Cryptid blur. Critic, sure. Sharp as the bottom line, Needle Drop spins spines it never designed. Protect the lottery for the sake of parity. Hilarity you think I give a fuck what’s on your mind. Anthony said I’m evil incarnate. Needle Drop? Stop. That’s content as vomit. The highest floor you ever seen. No fans raise the roof, just bile on repeat. Did you not platform off another’s sweat? Walkin' the dog, or just gaspin' for breath? What’s in the car? Steering wheel and seats. What’s on his playlist? Turkish snatched off the street. Picky pikey, Bricktop brained, Talkin’ bout theft while you shoplift pain. Quick lipped auctioneer with a taste for disdain. Review from the booth? That’s flag on the game. Short sighted man with a secondhand name, Talkin' bout talent like it’s pawnshop fame. Sellin’ hot takes that you never could stock. Parasite pastor at the pulpit of rot. If that’s not a van parked deep in the alley, This is bare knuckle parlay. I got your Downton finale. Curator. Gatekeeper. Cryptid blur. Critic, sure. Sharp as the bottom line, Needle Drop spins spines it never designed. Protect the lottery for the sake of parity. Hilarity you think I give a fuck what’s on your mind. Welcome to the best we got, hot off the pot. Fresh off the line, another artist gets dropped. Sign the 360, let the label lock. I want half upfront and a cut off the top. Meanwhile, reach for a cent? Butcher block. Got Shaq, Mutombo, Rodman on swap. And they don’t even call bank on the shot. I get shooter’s bounce, glass or Klay on the spot. More idols dancing than K Pop slots. Every single one still tied in knots. Since when was longer the badge for the rock? Is it music or your fine print and font? Now the whole machine screams we gotta figure this out. From bottom to top it’s panic, no doubt. But you had fifty years, now it’s a foul line. I’m already in motion, drawin like Harden in overtime. Here’s a penny for your thoughts. Hand down, man down. Whole system’s outta bounds. These whistleblowers can stop now. Penny for your thoughts. Spend it in silence. No refunds for the mindless. Think how they tell you. Then sign, initial, remain spineless. Penny for your thoughts. Spend it in silence. No refunds for the mindless. Think how they tell you. Then sign, initial, remain spineless.more