free style. I never read this before posting.

No one will ever, tell me how to live my life because it's a chapter, bookmarked, ready for
When, you pick up the next sentence, two years after you read the first leather bound
Hard backed saddle screwing with your spine, it's intertwined with a text, a fuck the caustic leather
You don't offer a single dime to me or to the categorically thought process of the grey mind.
Who the fuck do you think you are, your an autumn reason, a life of the varicose leaves browned
By the seasons stress and the scar. The reticent thought process, in which I feel so like the king crowned , in the streets of a parliament , sent into A  plus B equals a lifetime of dubious frowns.
Etched like the son of a bitch that always makes into the recurring, slurring words of a drunk subway
Homeless sleeping bag dwelling, head swelling after being hit by the umbrella fella, who struck in the temple of your head, not the temple of the dead.
There's a fucking situation going on here,  a queer partisan , partying into the depths of insecurity
A real cutie pie, calved into half, like the mother cow who demands that now, is the reason that it's all a part of how.
You're a beast roaming, a storming part of the thunder cloud, a whimsical tornado destroying the farm
The houses blasted into oblivion, you're just a civilian, a passerby, a pedestrian sucking in the air provided for the only lungs Mother Nature knows
I could slow,
This entire shit down, but I'm afraid this first try at freestyle poetry begs me to post
At the most I'll bow out.
I'm a chore master
I'm an eighties boom box blaster
Take it in my will, my sentiment of clarity so stark
And we are all a passage, a sentence, a simple bookmark