Two years in and out highs and low. Lo and behold. Time sure flies when your wasting life and chasing death. The world is not what you were led to believe. A knot of threads that must be loosed manually. Though some strike rich, others go cold and most see naught, until theyre old. What started with a game, they found lame. His skill was to blame. A pack of lies a horde of flies and love that should have died. That world was not meant to be. His craft he found untimely, a pattern, a plaeg, a seed. Birthing pains are such a drain. two years flowing down again. Work and struggle. The birds wear the crown, participation down, feeling like a clown. Chasing a high, stress enough to fry. Worlds made that could not be. The gods below wouldn't set him free. Now he sits quietly, wondering how to let them out [bright cheery violin begins to harmonize for the rest of the song offsetting the grunge] Time's in a drought, he heard her pout—a little shout. He stuffed her in paper pens, at odds near the end. She wouldn't bend, yet he forced it anyway That world she would slay. She pleaded to him sought and prayed and with her thrust into the fray, seized the day and her lonely play spoiled by her grit. Now two manuscripts. A load of bits, waiting on the next hit. A poem, a rhyme. Something to eat the time? Lovely edits, full of credits, wishing he could just end it. A world he wished would be. A battle fought endlessly. A thing he wish he could dream. An end. The end. Just publish.
