So if I write this

Will you clean

Or cast at me

The in-between?

If I made sense

To anyone

Would it be reason

Or any fun?

Could life’s old games

Be perfect now

Both too late yet early

Holy cow

The guy is married

To his name

Something weird

Or I’m insane?

I’m finding in

Without

And then the spin

Of doubt

Maybe then

But when

OK she asks

Say then

But what

No time

But how

Overtime

Wrong one

Not yours

But whose

Shores

Then why

Incase

Resays

Mace

Follows that

That’s two

Correct

Can’t you

Over?

Sure

But true

I fight

Say it

On-site

Can’t trust

But where

Everythere

And then

The pen

Makeshift

Yo sign

To sign I mean it

Blast it all

Ice cream it

Now whyey

Ok

Timing

Last straw

Coupled up

For all?

Too much

Oh whhhhat

The hey

it’s definitely a race. Of time and place, of the secret hunt. Of a sharing person, of something given, don’t take the wind, at least sometimes, it pushes, sometimes it’s a fight, sometimes truly I’m not alright. Up there somewhere, when I am grounded, I realize that it’s so profound.

I need a cheaper pound. And a way to pay, a dime to give, or something more to say. I guess there’s more to life than this, even if typing is temporary bliss. So in cantor and meter, in silence but not, I’m telling you that I never forgot.

Hey, it’s OK. Sometimes I gotta be not ok, just to get better, but maybe there’s other ways I could adapt, play or choose, things, people, or clues, or just let it all dissipate, sometimes just to give other’s – and myself – maybe even God – a little bit of a break from stress. So that’s a decent plight perhaps, enjoy, try, and do the necessary things and definitely the right ones.

It’s not really all so bad, I work it up inside; sometimes I say I’ll give it up, but then do it and then hide. It’s easily known, in or out; I give it all an utter doubt. Then to me, back it goes, I double out, throes and throes. Twenty one, even may, be the last, finalé.

Nothing else. Okay, the pay.

There you go.

I’m sorry I can’t give up, I’m sorry that I’m out of luck, I’m sorry that I give a fuck, I’m sorry that I even talk, I’m sorry that I write instead, I need these demons, out of my head.

It backwards too

Would it be

The same to you

How long it goes

There’s no thanks

Or those abound

So send me none

So she will be

Only hope

In company

The end is clear

Near is me

Alive or weird

Somehow I

Still find that power

To confess each hour

To the lord

I cannot find

Who’s already there

With all allowed