The Poacher’s Liability Issue

There’s a point that I’m reaching
Metal-stained depression that questions my poise. 
Soy sauce and Som Tam alleviate my diseases
Witherspoon Street, right off of Des Moines.
I’m better off. Leave me- said in telekinesis
Park my car in dimmed city streets, seemed so adroit.
As a meditative escape- to break free and avoid the
Culture clinic. Social sipping soak my inner Peaces.
I’m always five seconds away from decadent noise
A dollop of pain, cured by laying in bed just to waste.
Better today. Better today. I’m better today.
My heart’s national anthem never displayed
Harlequinade. Awkward delay, fault and dismay.
Darkness, decay, harvesting pain.
Hop on the train. There’s a billion souls unlike me not trying to rot.
How am I supposed to decide to just stop?
Contractual silence. Contrast, brightness and sharpness.
Liability issue. My investors predict a crash in my stock.
There’s no return in peace if I happen to drop.
You speak a dialect that only I could embark.
I’m a poacher with a penchant for a lioness heart.
I need sunlight and you seem to smile a lot.
You give me culture when art forms die on the spot.
Super setting. Filter mode, neutral touches interwoven.
Two Excedrins in my throat, you can barely sense the hope. 
Ibuprofens stashed inbetween the Miss you poems.
Hello, I miss you, so
I miss you