I'm going away,
But I might stay,
To play with clay,
In the middle of May,
Near hay,
In the bed where I lay,
With a tray,
And a bouquet,
Writing an essay,
I must say,
That is cliche,
On Friday,
Mckay.
P.S. This literally makes no sense, whatsoever. I also accidentally deleted the three-page story I was writing.
YOU ARE READING
Poems and Short Stories
PoetryRandom Stories and poems I came up. They are horrible.