Untitled

The pieces begin to shuffle as the scattered clumps form

Shifting and rearranging repairing a mess that consisted of torn

Nonsense and nothingness that was condensed into this

This before it

It looks upon this mess

It confessed but yet it still was not addressed

Stupidity and inadequacy causes it to retreat

It sees this steaming clutter of nonentity

This clutter pumps blue but runs red

Smearing it’s content over all that it dreads

Does this clutter not know what it really is?

It is not this… this is not it?

It’s loves do not consist of this

Balls and gloves… I think not

Composing, playing and rhyming… I think a lot

Random facts, sarcastic acts

Anime for breakfast, o fasho that keeps it intact

It reacts to what is real and not what is just facts

It dreams, It sores

It wonders and becomes nervous… yet it will explore

Its comfort is darkness and its pen

It writes, plays and thinks as it begins

If it is caressed above the ears but below the sky

It becomes gentle at heart and soft at the eye

To lay is to talk; to talk is to be silent

To listen to a beat is to speak silently

It’s ears open to these things to it that are thought highly

It hides behind its thoughts

It leaves what has been sought

If it could change this clutter would it finally dispose of this?

Would this clutter continue to exist?

For this clutter before it knows not this of it

Yet this clutter is now forever apart of it