My thoughts of wanting to exist in this frame amongst madness fades
it seems to wish for a reckoning
mostly of find a sane and painful way to end
next month, sometime midweek
once the paper work completes
lets not string people and cast them to hell
called bank work and insurance forms
and each day seems to bite
as of the boredom beast wasn't already perennially feasting on my soul
these chaotic conjectures of people saying "things are going to get better" falls off like water on a duck's back
I have a frivolous relationship with life, never could get it
it could never get me, both of us were distant even in what is purportedly termed happiness or hopelessness
neither has stuck
neither would matter if it did ...
ho ho ho and a ha ha ha ...even
Heavens to Murgatroyd
Sheepskins
and the print it has, irrelevant and its chase is insolence
my will worse, insolvent
And then Saturday will sit on my face
worse, it stinks
I prefer it to not
either ways
after all consent is key, to weekends too
while you are still reasoning between that innuendo and whatever else you seem to think this is about
I have assumed half of sixty days are fair
seems more poetic too to say
Where was I?
Oh
to find an sane and painful way to exit
where did that idea go, I had stored it here somewhere
later
maybe
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