Of what I am not good at
There are things that neither
Nor disabuse me
From the base circumstance
That what little chance, that there was
To mean something
Is quickly passing me by
And for what,
Is there this thing called time
That tempts me from the time
I should have been spending
Not the feeble
Emotions of what I have left from memories?
I have stood witness while your vainglorious and delusive self interests hurt others
and hurt me. But whatever I had seen was somehow equivalent to what you did.
As if our accomplishments and pratfalls were compare-ables to be made into functions,
lists, and tabularies of self interest. And I am not finished for I have foreswore to each and all of y’all that I’m not going to stop doing what I’m doing and finish you. And if in pursuing courses leads to an abandonment, then you know not what you have left. There will be nothing here to greet you on any return. All that has passed. There are no memories. There are no sanctified beliefs. There are only the screams. There are only the screams that you pretended to erase in not dreaming. In holding onto to the fact that you are a victim.