You’re awash with disaster on up inside of your head right now
The makings, unfortunate misgivings, of a past best left alone
You may be rather handsome but you cannot help feel a whole lot lost
These dreams are escaping everyone else’s attention but your own – when that little piece of the same mind – unscathed – attempts to set a parade in your every literary honour
You’re terrifically depressed, over-using the bigger words, or so those far less than able do seem to think
When does it all start to make some kind of sense, when you so much as give in, let these words work for themselves?
The pressure a constant thing on up inside
Your friends are far away and your quick-wit humour is wasted amidst these utterly problematic and lacklustre days
Perhaps the less you care the more you get to soar
Finally
Never have we ever met a so-called poet who hates to read so very much
Despise it even, problematic in a manner

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