B. 1

He goes from an adolescent caught up in the frame of a life in stills picture present.. That careless youngsta sees himself in the game, roll dice, with the will of a bigger essence.. Not that he feels any pressure for the effort, but he's dealed among things, one that head hurts.. That veil engraved on his face makes a case for the comforts.. You wouldn't be able to tell, cuz he shuns for tha thirst, when quenched, he clench's and it works.. Apart from all those who thought that they knew him, only he himself can draw up a pose, so fraught when they chewed 'em.. Gum-clapped, brows down low, they spun the shits that's whack whichever way he goes, not opposed but congruent, I suppose I write my shit, influence.. But you still digress the many work I stress, not fluent.. enough to make ya head dip, I dread in the ruins, not quite foul-mouth free, almost there, to be or not to continue..