A bit late, but it’s good.
I fell hard, such is the consequence of a colorful lure
Flickering in shallow water lit by hope
the world was messy, like a thirsty rag soaked with blood
still not gaining sustainence
sickness an albatross, urging me to frail edge
I had yet to learn that words can possess no value
be simply pretty things, we are misled by like Xmas baubles, turned over to reflect pattern
how can a writer realize, words can be emptier than a hollow tree?
people who write them, do so with convincing candor all enveloping like hard sales pitch
it’s impossible to believe they’re just words, without meaning, or worse, deliberate opposite
of truth, that sparten ideal, sucking ice for nourishment
when the wet ass hour comes, and it always comes
those who stay, are not those who wrote long entreaty
not the flatterers, cake-bakers, trumpet players
they are usually the last you’d…
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