One thing that could,

Ever be,

Rushing through one’s head,

Is that . . .

Are __________ cut to being or becoming _________?

An undemanding thought of question,

To,

Some people out in the world . . .

A flipping mystery misery,

That could end the world,

To others mind!

But again,

It’s a question,

None the less as it is,

So hear me out on this.

For you to ask,

If someone was to ask you,

What you did,

Why you do it,

Who you come across as,

Or maybe the last one,

What does it classify you?

As a joke,

Someone asked it,

A response was given,

And the final reply was . . .

An empty writer,

Not cut for it,

And rethink some life choices,

As something won’t keep daily life stable . . .

Refutation or not,

That is right to come degree,

That is right,

But at the same time wrong.

But to only of how far you can throw that person,

It is just how long the denial can last . . .

And in time,

Giving in is an outcome.

I choose not to,

Not yet,

And I wouldn’t want anyone to give up too,

If a reply as it is not for you,

Prove them wrong,

As best as you can,

Before throwing in the cards late into the game!

Show them up,

Take a bit of pride into,

And live it up,

As life is only once,

Your life is only once,

Make something of it.

Don’t let others say you’re not . . .

Edgy enough,

Dark enough,

Bouncy enough,

Multi-handler enough,

Don’t let those words be what makes you,

Only a part of you!

If they call you something that makes others leaves,

Such as bland,

Empty,

Uncreative,

Rip-off,

Attention seeker.

That’s only because they read the index of the book,

Not the first chapter,

Nor maybe just a few pages . . .

If others can’t see,

That’s how shallow others have become,

No open minds to see it,

Only blinded by what they like,

For that’s how focus groups work.

Not on letting it play on and see what happens,

If low enough,

It’s gone.

How else of other things still around,

Because of the index of life,

And with a lot of books,

Good and bad,

Throw away because of just because . . .

Because what?

I don’t know.

That’s just how some answer,

When you ask a question of why they like it . . .

Just because . . .

A reason could be at the end of it,

But never is,

Just blank,

Just as everything else in the world,

Because,

That’s how shallowness works in today’s life. . .

Skin-deep knowing of the index,

And a waste of pages no one bother to read.

Love whatever good about life now,

Because it’s thinning out,

Each passing day that becomes night,

And revise.

Now excuse me,

As this empty and shameless writer:

Who is only seeking attention and is nothing but a rip-off of others,

Needs to get things done,

That new series isn’t going to start itself!

About Author

Leave a Reply

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.