Its about time,
I return to the drawing board,
Scratching my scalp,
I find peanuts and dried twigs.
How do i imagine
I could possibly understand,
That in a million strung together moments,
poetic justice remains in the realm
of poetry alone.
Interminable disaster.
I return to the drawing board,
Scratching my scalp,
I find peanuts and dried twigs.
How do i imagine
I could possibly understand,
That in a million strung together moments,
poetic justice remains in the realm
of poetry alone.
Interminable disaster.
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