Tyrone’s Hyperborean Portrayal
When the stars correlate Satan’s lifestyle, pseudonyms, and purpose for lacerating dreams, the angels recite ballads of victory. What is a hyperborean portrayal? Is it necessary for a leader to disfigure my alma mater’s colors? What is the shape of a withered bloom whose universal message is defined by its youth? The gossip continues, and an answered question is being examined by educated fools. The Greek’s referred to Hyperborea as cold, and they believed that the continent was perfect. Tyrone came to Chief Blount’s town and froze the minds with two perfect faces. Figure-eight speed dribbles, George Mikan’s method, and Bird’s influences: They were practiced in vain.
I pleaded, “Jimmy Rogers! Will you be my catcher in the rye?” He whispered, “Times have changed, the blood is seeping, a growth spurt is inevitable, mutiny is mandatory, but football is thy name.”
Odors oozed from the shrinking corridors within my mind. I was aware of his arrival, but I believed that integrity was a trait gained from his anger management courses. It is shameful to recall a twenty-year old assault. But nonetheless, I trusted Tyrone’s intentions to strengthen what was virtually collapsing. Summer league blues came and went, and I arrived to training daily with positive intentions. Tyrone, Chapman the Puppet, and the conspirators asked for passion, dedication, teamwork, and fundamentals. I gave them the rhyme and the Rhine, while they betrayed what was mine. Now the young lads idolize both of Tyrone’s complexions, but my story is defined by a decaying spine. My only hope is family and education.
I pleaded, “Jimmy Rogers! Will you be my catcher in the rye?” He whispered, “Times have changed, the blood is seeping, a growth spurt is inevitable, mutiny is mandatory, but football is thy name.”
I’m not racist. Nonetheless, at the dawn of many inner cries, I observed the vice-versa and officially denied Magic of his fundamentals. I sprinted, benched, and recalled hours hopelessly filled with dreams that were obnoxiously induced by a false doctor: His name was Tyrone the Narcotics Distributer. What is a hyperborean portrayal? Is it a murderous frown distributed by twilight’s dawn? Is it the Arctic’s correlations with Tyrone’s infinitively-dark threats, Chapman the Puppet’s endless mocking, or Greg the Honorable One’s denial of the Presidency? The name remains, and as Mr. Deason moves forward, an important position continues to be occupied by the unqualified. Tyrone threatened my family. Heaven, Eldorado, and the Grey Havens only negotiate with the high-principled who are unstained by the flood.
I pleaded, “Jimmy Rogers! Will you be my catcher in the rye?” He whispered, “Times have changed, the blood is seeping, a growth spurt is inevitable, mutiny is mandatory, but football is thy name.”
Oddly enough, Tyrone’s year didn’t deceive my nostril’s ability to recognize the game: The rubber odor that fumed from the ball, the smell of a refreshing workout that soothed the mind, or my ability to recognize “shower” withdrawals. However, Galadriel promised that her gift would brighten the earth’s darkest realms. Frodo, the nine-fingered ring-bearer, bring me your peace, and my pinky is yours! Tyrone is manipulative! Tyrone is inconsiderate to the sex that forged his godforsaken flesh for the greater good! While the days carried on in spite of wrong-doings, I chronically asked why Midnight’s future was plastered with excuses. Maybe he was lazy, undeveloped, and lost in time. But Midnight possessed potential, and Tyrone failed in light of D-Wayne’s downfall. A rapist never shivers mercifully, after a child’s father passes uncontrollably. A rapist is Death in a nutshell, and Tyrone is the nutcracker that sings beautifully for the school board.
What is light in the midst of a hyperborean portrayal? Is it perfection that spurts from fertilized diversity in addition to immortal equality? Is light the torridity that enhances flourishing within a hyperborean realm? Is a fluorescent bulb able to relinquish a rapist’s grasp, a maniacal strut, and the severity of profane comments that are pointed towards children? Maybe he believed we were men? Maybe he failed to make us men? Mentally unstable and able-bodied, but clipboards are frail while Tyrone punctured the wall and all is stale! Give me my sertraline, because balconies are intended to protect people.
I pleaded, “Jimmy Rogers! Will you be my catcher in the rye?” He whispered, “Times have changed, the blood is seeping, a growth spurt is inevitable, mutiny is mandatory, but football is thy name.”
My father was infuriated by Tyrone’s songs, Greg the Honorable One’s silence, and Chapman the Puppet’s overall presence. During the Summer of Changes, I grieved because of my humiliation. However, Bethlehem’s program enlightened my black perspective on life’s remainder. Words, frowns, and a bastard who won’t die: Words, parchment, and rhymes disfigure the embarrassment solidified by positive goodbyes. In the end, Greg Jordan was the only one that stood for justice.
I pleaded, “Jimmy Rogers! Will you be my catcher in the rye?” He whispered, “Times have changed, the blood is seeping, a growth spurt is inevitable, mutiny is mandatory, but football is thy name.”
Depression disintegrates due to sweltering swine’s scorched by the dawn of the Sun. I’m not racist.
Robert Alexander Deason Peace
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