Thursday, October 18, 2012

Gatherers

Some people are sick, some people are sicker. Put your pride to the right to become so much quicker. My words are as quiet as the night. My words your last mister. Colder than its definition. More ironic than its mission. Your fragility stems into a root feeding on the blasphemy of my name. I'm wasting my fame. Your claiming your gain. My words should have a bigger ego. My gut should delve into a more rapid free fall. I'd rather state my thanks and move onto tomorrow.




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