Sit down try and write something
feels like trying to fight something.
Wrestle with this brain of mine
check the time and try and make a rhyme,
that means something or anything
not just words, bullshit.
Can’t see through the haze of lies,
every thought is a fraud –
abhorred ward of a madhouse.
So I sit and mull
over things so dull,
and gloomy they could bore to death, going over an over;
stuck in a way
lost and astray
do you have an ashtray, cheers.
Where was I then.


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