Or else, I’ve done mischievous deeds

Or else, I’ve done mischievous deeds

planting but sorrow, harvesting seeds

unripe, that others had interred.

The dissolution of souls deferred

my strikes, mirrored them. I fell.

Pluck a petal, pick your passion.

I take no pleasure in tiring my head,

stirring, recurring to stratagems

of deviant kind.

Lands of gems,

single islets producing but doublets.

It’s getting harder and harder,

ardour’s betraying all,

or else, I’m doing mischievous things.

Still feeling, feeling still, stings

– I feel the pain draining through

acts.

Shall I compare you to a summer’s day,

you should, but I need to go away

too soon to listen, too far back to stay,

the only thing I want to live for is today.

Each of them looks alike

not a critique of pure dishonesty

but I attempt to see whom I’d like

to see.

Scraping leaves – hello

I say. Is it you?

Tourists? I’ve been one

back in the day,

when beer was cheaper than food. And now

I travel around the house, tomorrow

I’ll be sitting in a better place.

Hunger doesn’t leave me,

it makes me write, and then

it scares me with dyslexia.

Alas, I want to eat, yet I don’t,

I’m no use fat nor skinny. The only want

of me is me.

Thersites was my friend, the best,

he gave me a helmet with a crest,

“Put it on and walk around”

he said, “falling to the ground

you’ll see the chicks.”

I’m done with this,

to hear the switches, to hear the mis-

sing of a name.

O, give me fame.

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