The poet stood their, defeated, harrowed by how he was wrong, dead yet still hung on the last sound , not able to let all his limbs slip into the void, but you see the poet needs to let go, the poet needs to understand that all mistakes will be known as something of the past but will be forgotten far before rhythm

Who’s to say, that no matter how reality checks out, we’ll be thinking something different, could you think it? Or is it rather holding a gift you don’t want, who’s to say the tangents are beauty if that’s tangible by the eye of the observer you see that must be beautiful, the poet struggles to imagine the idea of starting off the wrong foot

The poet stood their, thinking, how much muddier is it gonna get before I can have an opinion, how many times are you going to tell me why he killed him, but the poet doesn’t care for cause or reason, the poet sees that body, and lays a flower on it.

We seem to hate each other yet we all run from death, and the killer cried, who’s the one with the bloodied knife, I’ll **** you! , and the victim will scream ‘******’ but the killer gets away, just for new white gloves to comes to get stained and

the observer stood there, crying...
You see the poet thinks, it’s bad to wrap yourself in lines you pretend can’t break, cause when you shed them, what’s left?
The poet stood their, spitting, what if I’ve already told you this one, as he sat their thinking of what to spit.