Believe not my words.
Who am I but a poet
dispensing fleeting
thoughts. Happy in their nature,
sarcastic in their ideal
Broken by the pain,
a mind apart from it’s soul,
wanders aimlessly.
Seeking only to band words
to bring about fruition
Existing on the
fringe of reason and mockery.
Satire of life,
petulant of emotions,
necessitates solitude.
So I persevere.
Stringing words as fake feelings.
I carry with me
the very air of neglect
and place it where all can see.
Trust not your own thoughts.
For could they not be tainted
by the simple act
of reading and absorbing
my flotsam, casually strewn
