What is thy rhythm?
Does thou speak in pentameter?
Or is thou pretentious enough to utter strict trochaic meter and dare act like it is normal?
Oh thy language is the child of a mad genius and a boy who never grew past the age of fifteen.
The genius that could, and would, change the world had not for the rumors of pending madness.
The fifteen year old that can only really be defined in two words: sybarite and lost.
A scoff,
A laugh,
A judgement.
Why is it that thou always seems to make everyone and yet no one in particular seem lesser.
Yet, do you even truly find thyself to be better?
Read, omit, repeat.
Book after book, and yet thou still fails to see the basis of the very nature behind them all.
When will this spiral end?
Perhaps when that emotional manipulative spiral ceases to be romanticized.
When will this poem end?
I seem to always pick up this book again.
Yet, I seem to find a new feeling each time I do.
First, Loss and sorrow
Second, anger and regret
Third, acceptance and moving on
Now, I seem to find pity,
Now that, is a pretentious feeling
