What could I possibly hate more?
A question which poses itself;
That I drew on my bedroom wall.
With the matter of oneself,
Whom had suffered a great fall
from the top of my mantel shelf.
O, no, the fire was still left on and burning bright.
O, dear, such a pity for the fire to engulf you tonight.
What is life and are we really living
the way we think we aught to?
Often on nights such as this, quivering,
I ask myself, 'till my brain is stew.
But philosophy is for those who don't mind giving
A fuck or two, so I must say screw
It all, because to be honest it's all a cyclical argument.
Or a catch-22 or whatever you wish to call it.
But time is wasting too much I'd say.
So what's up with all the rhetoric?
Perchance this is the time for an essay.
But then again I'd much rather frolic
in a pile of wet, sticky, chocolate soufflé.
But hey, on the bright side, I'm not an alcoholic.
But even if I was, I don't think anything could be as bad
As the procrastination, that's taken firm hold of my gonad(s).
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