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i wonder a lot of the times what should i do....
a glock and a nine in the back of my mind. no excuse to use wha i abuse with such a muse. a mini-mite. a small-spat-spite. not a rite. just a parasite. take all, leave all, the useless never bore. gore of the sky. a transparent cloud flows deeply through your letters of sweet spasmic sorrow. the shine takes place of the side of the story that's unclear; however, it is always ready for forgiveness. miracle after tragedy beckons my mind to imagine behemoth shapes of resolve. (we) become sentinels of our favored freedoms; then float swiftly near the theme of our birth. such silly sense of nonsense it all became loose leaf papers of meaningless letters and words blown away but not apart became our motto for life as an art. (and yet no faith in it was thrust). so back to realistic shatters of skull and spine, i kept the promise so cliched -- "at a moment's notice, leave me, and i shall repay this kind act as a suicide note of c (c-sharp) that will play in your thoughts instead of the music of life." a leave of absence at work, a missed day at school, and an empty chair at the dining room become aaparent clues of my departure from you myt dear; ii see you clear until the gun is cocked.
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