t's upsetting, like (jammed between) naming a trigger, but
fire happens, we kill in stride, and the bakery smells fresh every day the poem comes outmoded, and only the reader can save it trees rock in the savvy wind, a prism infatuated with delivering raw good, as in the sense of panic on the edge of writing something words remember when you were living inside something closed and waning a drizzle of sentences fractalizes into a standard of self reflection we buy the beer we think fits our lifestyle and with no misgivings the rhymes of this tardiness occurr not from said beer a trailer discards its motivation and rumbles to stop practice engages a useful net of changing the terror of words we struck a causative love for gods sake and this is the result let's say Poirot has a buzz and a beam on the proctoring rendezvous the sport of writing thru the name spins until its province dies in scorch
