By Ben Vest
I was appointed an author to the story of life, Somewhere up above collecting thoughts, Multiple encounters near misses with a scythe, As if it’s scribbling was enough, Evading all those times caught, Fallen feather fluff, Retrograding rot, And it still hasn’t written the good stuff, These feathered angels with ink blots, Writing my life rough, Stretching out the plot. Assigned by a person’s personality, This may sound absurd, Heaven hell mixed duality, The flight of the bird, With light and dark equality, It’s squawking was heard, Striking out the penalty, Authenticating it’s word. Some may have chickens, Running away with fear, With loose lips gossip quickens, With pleasantries like dear, Waddling their steps thicken, Communicating with the mirror, Head butting it’s struck stricken. It’d make sense that mine would be a dodo, Outdated with extinction, Always out looking for someone smaller then Frodo, My little people appreciation, Putting things off until tomorrow, As if today wasn’t enough fornication, Just seems my writer only knows sorrow, How about a little more variation? Standing, I’m looking down the hall, Looking for the end, an exit to find, Hunching, I’d have to bend and crawl, Looking up to the words of it’s mind, Perhaps I should just withdraw, Forward facing going behind, As it glides to a fall, The page twists and binds, Unable to read its scrawl, Glitching and going rewind, As if my story stalls-
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© Original Artwork, copyright of Ben Vest, all rights reserved