Professional Handicaps

There are men, I can tell, who live their infant lives in jail. That sour taste which stole away, my childish love of life and play. This evil world is all I know. This haunted playground by the holes. Where dug to hide impunities, dug by the likes of you and me. A shattered tenacity lost in an undertow. A harrowed generosity towards those we know. If maybe nothing new made sense, then something more than thought could glimpse; lost, portrayed realities upon flatscreens. Never wonder just where the screams, for help, for love, have sounded from those shoved; towards vacancy in longing, wandering is blaspheme. What you and I see is all there's left to tell: Professional handicaps lost to no avail!