Three of four twenty twenty two

Be be be,

toot toot toot,

All my cryto is,

now someone else’s loot.



and depression running high,

The trains are calling,

I look up to the sky.


Isn’t it funny,

how we can fly,

when there nothing left to hold,

or say even say goodbye.


Its a shame, its depressing,

it a guilty regression.

Its the must have recession.

to endure this progression.



brevity, poverty and more.

Such is being balled up,

as a rock on the floor.


Its a disability,

a sorry of sorts,

to worry about,

all the warts and cohorts.


From under the clouds,

where we all must weep,

giving up our last,

spread in the sheets.


The loss of friends,

and cost of family,

watch and listening,

as they suffer prosperity.


Vacuumed feelings,

into the floor,

laying ones head,

in front of the door.


Praying for lords,

to burst on in,

snapping our necks,

making our sick grin.


The vulgarate flourishes,

the weeds all grow,

there dust and dirt,

from where’st we don’t know.


But I’ll keep on writing,

as these memes still occur,

disturbed and tormented,

as do the dreams of her.


Missing in action,

accumulated baggage.

Each actions reaction,

can be a devastating passage.


Continuous suffering,

till there is no more,

exhausted and hungry,

ball up on the floor.








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