Iceskating in sandlots

My days run away from me.
I get caught behind dust and fragments of perceptions you have.

I’m a writer.
I’m a composer.
I’m a lost soul.

I am at the beginning of my journey for a poetic magnanimous living.
I have tried to force destiny,
And empty lungs are the only sound singing me to sleep.

I improve as I go.
I seek in my writing not your friendly approval.
I respect hatred, disgrace, and disputed words.

I will be greatness.
I shall create my own world of words or die with ink in my mind.

The world loves to rape an unmolested soul and this I feel comfort in.
I sold my soul long ago,
And to you I hope to never quote that price.


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