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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