Story

I'm just writing my story Leaving out all the glory I never tore them; yet the pages and spine are all but broken Its letters are scattered, yet still the words form a concise omen Would you read it back to me slowly, please, as you reach the bitter ending? It hurts my eyes, you see; this heart could use a break from all this bending..... Being devoured alive inside is such a epic novel unsavory Moments, however, are kept in order by thoughts of your light upon my gnomon They just keep coming, though without a care as to whether or not they are heartrending It's so sour to own a form of pain that is this condescending A barren land uncultivated and so divided from this yeoman Painless by comparison to a nose job given by the grindstone of life's knavery Just as I finished; then, the ink ran dry right before me..... It's in this here and now that I've broken out I wanna scream, but they drown out every shout Then I think of all the things I ought not talk about: Have they ever not been a couple minutes too late? Do they ever have their story straight? Inside me, hope has made its case to abate.... Hung from ropes unknown, can you relate? Am I the world's least astute gadabout? What I feel is that my intentions are drawn and quartered; based fully on others' self-doubt But there is no way I will let this point of pitiful; be an excuse to live life by copping out