1900
40 hours is killing me
yet, without it kills me too.
I don’t know what to do,
Do you?
Giving my everything to scrape
The bottom of some made up barrel,
While I’m constantly scared
that the massive mess of the careless will let me go,
So I keep going, and over-time
I’m showing less growth.
Trying to add some meaning
To the gleaning,
fading waste of short time,
The crime of rhyming is chiming
Towards its final toll,
and I’ve lost track of the goal
that I used to Know so well.
I don’t write for an audience.
I don’t write for some insane internal seance.
I write ‘cause I don’t know what else
to do..?!..
