Oil Blooded

These kids are living life without a purpose and it hurts,
I fix my words and hope these broken pistons still work.
It's evident in my writing that a depression is present,
Now it's started to leak into my ability for first impressions,
Mental deception of your attributes, I'm at salute.
But not a single thing you've said can be put to use,
Put to the noose, death of the culture at the hand of the sender.
Death of a salesmen on the land of the pretenders.
I brush the dust off my shoulders, off the porch and into the harvest,
Trying to harness the hardest parts of becoming an artist
Ardent with argot jargon of artic light-like conspicuity.
I've birthed a working brain out of engine parts and opinion ambiguity,
Steam-punk congruity with tin man mentality to ingenuity;
The first homosepian without a heart living humanly.
Oil blooded but still loving the world in it's lunacy.
The war going on for your mind is ending brutally.
Usually the corpse is delt with ruthlessly cruelly;
Truthfully you use to be alright with a guideline and wide eyes.
The wise guys hop onto Enterprised surprised you survived with them.
You'll only remind them that you advertised no mind when it was all written.