A chair,
There for you,
And your displeasure.
Or I guess you could refer to it as my own,
At one point or another,
When did I begin to feel?
To refer to myself,
Like I am burdened with significance.
Though, obviously I am nye,
Brew and boil medicated lie.
And try to make this utterance come to sense.
Sense my discontentment,
Please,
Before it eats me alive,
And it will.
It all depends on how set I am on dissapaiting.
That does not matter,
Because there is no condolences in that.
In it.
And it continues to Binge.
Binge on me.
Bing and only one thing is inevitable.
To bing,
Is to purge.
And to ask where my flesh has gone,
is to be answered by the duo.
Fawn fawn fawn,
Hah,
Laughter is all I haven't pawned,
It's always bothered me though,
How my chest still expands,
When my flesh is blatantly,
G o n e .
YOU ARE READING
Laugh with a Draft
PoetryI wrote a poem, I sometimes do that. __ But in finality and purity, these words mean so much- yet I'm blinded by their insincerity. All this is, is a dishonest fold of revelation, self-accusation, and starvation. And so much more, more to be rimmed...
