Not So Great Poems

Flaw Which Grind While Subject Avoid

For one who faces little craw,
I burn.

No ail seems infliction
Yet just might be the cause,
A constant, numb depression
I've bore not any root.
Lie with one in deep divine
Tell true through messy sentiment
Find in me no expergefactor to wake me from this haze
But simple desperation remain.
Torment, this is honest to me,
Not only raged by unrellent still,
Worrying idiopathic from head and hips to heart.
Cursed beads creepingly taking the oculus uterque,
Feelingly unaligned osteo and charming sinew,
Slowly acheing organs in an ever-loving core.
My need for food and thirst for water only--
Unclear.
What be my fate as well?
With which I've strangely no care.
I take approach, like some do say,
"I won't until I get there."
Lastly miss what I gave up and admire the way it changed.

My words hold dragoned meaning
Speaking just
Unworthy complaints.

For one who faces awning craw,
I wraith.