Status:
In Progress |
Genre: Non-Fiction |
House:
This One's For The Outcasts
Loitering Lame, though not lisurely.
A head haunted in procastinations,
Procastinating further, projecting carefree.
Carefree it seems of sands of time.
Untamed, unguided, wanders idle,
Freely scribbling a directionless rhyme.
Rhyming the verses, head does smirk.
An evil smile contained all inward,
Posing too busy withouut any work.
Conscience racks, eats up within;
While Dove sits idle as a worthless rock.
Wondering beyond the loss or win.
Lamenting on how I kill my clock.
© Copyright 2018 Doveheart. All rights reserved.
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