I’ve withered into admitting I’m depressed for no real beknowst reason.
Held so casually, I know I don’t feel much like that;
But I’m absolutely that right now.
Grab the blue garments of cancer-wear.
The fun long-sleeve made me feel stupid and too-young-for-cancer.
The Sweater Isle, I’s, and Is-nots: beautiful but too saggy.
Hven’t busted it yet.
The brown-thermal: delicious.
We all know that, it’ll
Be
Earned, by December.
And Cozy by November.
I don’t know what I’m really getting at.
Ration-Your-Food.
The early dialects of nuclear-norman families.
My family tried so hard at that.
All of us bastardous and unplanned by me, at-least.
And we seem to do it so well.
They tell me, I carry it “the best.”
That’s tyranny just to hear uttered.
Depressed Black Sheep.
Bah bah bail me another hay to hop and scither to sleep on.
Whatever that means.
We’re british today and mostly huguenot for funsies and using all the fresh produce.
Knickers for Jakes,
I think we’re bored again.
Puzzles and Tunes times.
Futuristic synth sounds y fun-times.
Speed-play the dynamic.
Beat the computer.
Challenge the system.
Flood the algorithm with bugs.
I anticipate the next colors pretty easily.
Combos as if I planned them.
Strategy.
I don’t think so, anymore.
I think I’ve become some withered vain in old-soul’s delight.
Something altruistic.
Like gardenia drying for 50 rains.
The willow until the wildfire burns it all down again.
Mulberry roasts for dirt-purged chicory coffee.
And then somewhere along they find the shrunken-hand of oddness.
And I get turn to healing powder called aspirin.
Every Native’s Delight.
Don’t they just know it’s wintergreen by now?
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