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Not all journeys are measured by clocks and calendars, but rather the ripening of one’s character. To give bloom to thoughts that are your own. And live a life, without fear of how others perceive you.
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.