I’ve to go someplace. Suffocated. Killed. Impaled. Ohh. Ahh. Shoot. Urrgh. Yuk. Hummf. Phrr… Grr..frr
Rare and fleeting are moments of satisfaction
All rest is filled with despair, longing
for what is not
for what could’ve been
for what is and i refuse to see
Is it expedient to be obedient
in face of zilch experience?
There is a sudden accretion of matter,
in the region aspiring the rouge.
There is accumulation of mist,
in the region in want of gray.
But there is the shadow of indolence,
cast upon the whole prospect.
If you think that your prowess divine,
Can impregnate the supine, the bovine.
If you think you filled the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,
Yours is the cup and the proliferation that’s in it,
And–which is more—you are the Man beaucoup!