The deleterious presence of his breath, is not missed,
He is not missed.
He spent our days talking *******, raiding expensive alcohol,
From the fridge.
He decided that he was most important of all,
Above any creation of thine.
He assumed that he could work to remove every worth,
All value, to dull thy shine.
See, he was fairly foolish,
In his delusional
He truly believed that the foolish one, that the deluded party,
He had no idea of his death breath, and his unattractive
He did not have the slightest idea that I was bored shitless,
By his chosen, daily grind.
So you can call this a poem,
Because this is not
Written just to get it out,
So I can fly, cross the water,
See, I don’t sing for *******,
Not no more,
This bird is free.
And through it all no person, no man, nobody can shake me
From this tree.
If you seek him, you shall find him at his address, No. 1,
A barren place where there are no changes, nothing matures, and
Pissy tea brews.
You can take all the lessons, you may climb and
You will grow.
That is what these ******* are for, that is all, and they
Don’t even know.
This is an epic purging poem, maybe a bit of a story. It’s not very nice in part, though neither was he... and in heavier doses. I learned a lot.
Can’t be on the love songs too much :-).
Take away consideration: does pointlessness exist?
Everything, and everyone has purpose. Everyone has value.