On-Titled

My wards sing me to myself
From the lines I drew on my shelf

My thoughts posing on a page
It seams two have bin an age
I know this is a new stage
My story tells a divine adage

My phonies smart
It feeds my soul nostalgia
Even as God himself
Displays displays of These plays
That mean Truth
He’s awesome at scripts
I bounce between what who says

I long for solitude,
Wile my mother doesn’t.
She pretends contentment
Yet I know
Her monologues wood be sighs
If I wasn’t hear.

I…con cider my future
Kronos’s vortex of consequences
I wish everyone did this as well
Too many ticks are swell
Squashed beneath footprints

My words sing Mi to my self
From the lines I draw on my shelf

Right me a reply
Left after you figure why
I rote these wards
I Luke for word to ridding
Yours since yearly,
Me.