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Doesn’t have any use…

I have concieved

A newfound conceptulization of knowledge

Though, I don’t know about the creative use it could ever possibly achieve

And how it would become acknowleded

Though I want to believe

That it should be accomplished

I spend all of my nights naive

as I push for my work to become relished

My sweat drips down my brow as I grieve

for this to mature until it’s embellished

All the different thoughts interweave

My mindset metamorphosing to a status of being zealous

And now I just can’t believe

What’s happened to my precious

outrageous dream I percieved

as I stand there breathless

I can see

it’s essence

I’m relieved

my work’s presence

is almost sezied

One last sentence

My work is complete

My only question

What the hell does it do?



How are you doing?

I mean,


Get me up on the queing

the brewing

the cooing

the chewing

the penis…

I mean uhhh

I don’t have a self-limitation

Not a single damn filtration

So then I leave the situation

With a bit of thoughtful narration

I didn’t think my vocation

Of these constant quotations

is really building a strong foundation,

but either way my gesticulation,

my stong orientation

gives off the scent that my fixation

might form a bit of a notation

towards the liberation

I mean uhhh

the penetration

I mean uhhhhhhh

the ejaculation

Dammit uhhhhh,


the masturbation…

No, no!

Don’t walk away, I!



A poem written by a man who narrates himself in rhyme leaving one line on the end for self-analysis

Let it flow
Is the best I can say
As I have no musical prowess,
And either way,
It’s your song or erm…
your (plural) song,
And the way you use your terms
Can be a defining point in the fact that you sound really awkward in conversation as you try to rhyme self-analytically leaving a very long line at the end for a gawky analysis.

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