Lord, spare me the curse of mediocrity.
Sometimes I feel like the ability to articulate our anger is the only thing that separates us from the animals.
Every word a spider’s web, that catches thoughts like flies. And consumes them there in part and while, until each thought’s sucked dry.
The nourishment that fills thy mind, becomes ever fleeting fast. Every learn’d response and simple thing, comes ever rushing back.
I struggle with both idea and rhyme, this notion all must fit. But honestly, this cycles dream fills the space with all I lack.
Forgive me then, for all this flow and stumbles far and near. My long winded takes of romantic quips, never knowing how to end. While sentences run, I chase them down, whilst doing as I feared.
Lack of sleep, leads to flocks of sheep.
There is always silence between footsteps.
Some move away,
Some move towards.
But they all are important.
Life comes in cycles.
Those seeking for the end of the world are the most likely to help create it.