And I splatter ink on pages solely with the inclination-
Pretty poems. Instant passion
May just be the formulation
To fashion something sprightly
Slay the serious and striking
Fears of loathing taken lightly
May just grave me most likely
But I know that six feet under
Still I'd blunder into thinking
That the trees that tower over me
May just carry my poetry
And the bristles and the birds
Carry all my pretty words
Through the woods to all the cities
Where hack writers looking pretty
Butcher words to string together
Bled them dry to pass the weather
But not whether they'd pass time
But only to pass the time
And one day they'd look outside
See a sparrow coming nigh
Nearly ecstatic they would rhyme
Something predictable
Only to find
A short note- my epitaph
Fuck you
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