Some poetry I wrote when I was bored. They are all unrelated, and stand on their own. (Please don't kill me if you don't like it)
If I am but dust
then what maketh the shelf
that gives purpose and upholds
my meaningless existence?
A hand was dealt
to two seperate lives
one recieved a quick death
one recieved a hundred wives
We are constantly pursued
by the idle intricacies of life
only resting when
clenched in death’s fist
or wrapped in love’s shawl
Freedom’s handcuffs
Were a gift I didn’t ask for
But graciously accepted
Unaware the jailor lost the key