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Fuck it;)

Word smith an unintelligent gun smith power lives, in the sound between your lips so girls bend your hips just jokes so, Netflix and chill, ...

Sunday, 31 October 2021

A small poem about a brief game called, Life.

Inevitable, all life's edible
boxing boxes, trapped in, nothings not credible
everything, nothing, neither's legible
pawns born, boarded between three dimensional angles
drifting pieces that rest, dreaming in cradles
'till one by one they vanish, to the unescapable.

The quest of life, be ever fatal.