03.06.03 . 4:06 p.m.
109: pressed in a book

doted on like seeds planted in rows, the untied shoelaces of your life nurtured all year then pressed in a book or displayed in bad taste at the table.

problems arise and you fan the fire while theres a wild pack of dogs in your house tonight. cut from bad cloth or soiled like socks-add it up and basically people dont change.

they just talk and make plans in the dark or make haste with ideas that cant help but creep good people out.

as you talk to me too much youre assuming we dont always want whats right.

did i strike the right set of chords?

youre annoyed.

the goal is to ignite you then move on. you feel ill at ease. you got no squeeze.

and the wise cracks wont make you more stable. youve learned your lines to scale and to time. why must i remind you now im only less able. cut from bad cloth or soiled like socks, we're ordinary people we cant help but to change.

two fallen saplings in an open field, snow padding gently on an empty bench, and old womans jewelry lying unadorned, cold nesting robins allied for the first time, i know when you hear these sappy lines youll roll your eyes and say "nice try"


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