No muse, for amusing my boredom. I lock away the pen of truth, and stare deceitfully at this page. My moments, MY. This is where truth has gone awry. There is no pendminship that can express, what you know as why. To Try, To Hate, To fashion onesart after the Great, stylus better than I. My poetry knows no shallow border or mark. Where do words come from? Gaseous farts, of what could become great order. The disorder was belief in knowing anything. From ending to ending, we find our happy beginnings. What lie was taught, when the climax before conclusion brought, all our hippy hearts bleeding. After a fashion tabled by context, we judge the covers; Cycling perverse misery, in a box office. Where we sit, with no muse to amuse our boredom.

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