There it sits idly by,
why oh why,
I sit here in the throne of my eye.
Here it hears like a fly by,
where o where;
did I hear it loud and clear.
I touched and felt your prescence just cause you kept me on leash,
although in my sense I saw your face unfairly smirked my way.
How then must I see this while I process it in,
than me being unfairly upon my own.
Worry to my anxiety,
nuh nuh, uh oh;
then I do not do nothing,
I only need to clasp my hands in between a space and make alignment down below here up to the top of sky,
"for thanks and grace upon this place and make me a plastic case".
About the Creator
Poetry is my past, the future rolls for no one. I'd rather have her exorcise my past and to entertain as life goes by in this chaotic world.
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