it doesn’t make sensE
it doesn’t feel righT

like brushing froM
end to rooT

similar to runninG
up the descendinG

exhausted. It doesn’t makE
sense. Craving yoU

sighing. Writing a poeM
when i should bE

writing truths. howlinG
thrashing, Despising, but sittinG

transferring thoughts on whY
it doesn’t make sensE