This Cannot be my Wish…

I shut my eyes and went into intent.  I haven’t yet sent the crads, and though my Dad’s overseas, the ease to use the keys is something that I sometimes forget.  I am not so deeply in debt, yet the deceit is layered over what I’ve done yet.

The net a place where the bass may come from.  The series and sum that show I’m a crumb will plumb the fish to wish upon me the three to tree.  I cannot claim that my aims are pure…. I still know I will not know her.

A mental purr I cannot contend, as the friends seem few, yet that’s because I get focused on doing what I do (which really is not a lot).  I am not one to smoke pot, yet the ciggies have got me addicted too much.  I cannot close such addiction as far as I’m yet aware.  The air is needed, though I’ve seeded a flow that’s weeded out from the soil.

My eyes opened.  The foil pipe smoked before I type.  I should not gripe or whine, for the fact is that there is a design that I cannot fathom that is in the wares that trine and hold.  The mould of the cold stare find me to get sad that there are few that seem to be true.  It’s a reflection of myself too.  I haven’t found myself to love like a real friend.  I’ve been too focused on what I cannot yet tend.

The facts of today find that I wound myself away from being one to accurately convey the way a friend should hope and care or pray.  I want to lay down to rest and rise in the AM.  The things, though, that I write do not yet show or share the plight of which I am held.  The weld of my rhymes is a basic skill that is too much not needed.  The ideas and plans I seeded seem like foolish whimsical notions, and then, as it seems, the pity party across oceans.

I cannot claim I have devotions.  I seem to think that if I did, I would not need to have hid my heart or my wants.  This daunts me.  I have claimed to be a sapling, yet I don’t even know if I’m a seed to a tree.  It’s like I’ve teed myself up to skip and be poured from the cup.  A sad depraved pup that can’t seem to actually love and sup.

I cause the flaws in the patchwork quilt to latch my guilt to the hem.  A node of Haw and Hem and how I’ve not a clue what to do.  I can rhyme… yea… wahoo… (Can you see how fucking glad I am that I can do).  No… because I’m being sarcastic.  It doesn’t matter what I write.  It doesn’t matter that your right.  It doesn’t matter if I purge my essence to be brighter than all the stars light.

I might just have a clue enough that I should just puff and pass on the fact that I really don’t have any much of an impact, and thanks for letting me know that I am held by another to let the lines refract.

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