Fuck my past.
I'm past who had the last laugh when amassed is the math that graphs the epitaphs.
I've trashed your wrath. You don't have a calf to be slaughtered, just a lost path and a head half full of bong water.
Your teeter totters.
I imagine you balancing
and laugh at the talents your dead valance brings.
It's nothing,
just like all your time spent is a waste.
You keep eating defeat just to conceit the taste.
Fuck my past.
I'm future-faced,
full blast to leave this place.
Evasive haste disgraces the pace you call time.
From the bottom of the mountain, I'm counting as I climb.
I'll hover above her and suffer sublime
until we recover one another, and our number is less prime.
Please tell me what you think
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Since you can't I will
Your mind never ceases to amaze me. I know that when I read one of your creations I will think and for me that is what makes it worth while. The past is best left where it lies only to be studdied when a lesson should be learned. Be well Zak.
April
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Thanks for stopping by. Sometimes I feel like I write for you and Reni, really, since you're the only ones that ever read anything.
And myself, of course, but that's easy to leave out.
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I'm so jealous of how well you can rhyme.
Yum. Here's the apple sauce you deserve:
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Can I give myself applause? Prolly not.
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