Here you are,
trying to find a way
to use this white as a medium;
something to lay creative cards onto.
You've done it before.
Why can't you now?
Your brain is dust.

But... but
all things rust?
Or only you can decide....
whether things...
last forever,
and are carried in circles,
for always. (whatever that is.)

You're high,
during a time
when you're desperate to express
what you've seen above your eyes.
Your intoxicated imagination won't
produce anything
that means anything
to you.

All things rust,
so only you
can decide whether life lasts forever,
and if these things carry on
infinitely though time
or circles,
whatever.
I know! Words!

How conclusive?
The train of thought is lost.
Aduurrr, it's nuffin t' be stoopid.
Do you reckon...
you'll understand... when...
you look back upon it!?
Your words are just a click away.
You feel like a chicken.

Loud, repetetive
beeping noises
should be...
outlawed.
In part, because they are what evil is,
in piece, because they are just nagging.

"Take some poetry classes."

You don't care what this poem acts like.
You don't care about the flow at all.

You're going to do something else now.

09/02/2005

Author's Note: I don't know WHAT this is, but it is, and i meant it!

Posted on 09/02/2005
Copyright © 2024 Meagan Green