• robmarshall 6w

    No sense

    I am precisely precise in my precision when my internal vision is picking myself apart,
    I'm decidedly divisive when I like this part of me that I once hated from the start,
    I am assuredly unsure of what I should pour out of myself in writing,
    It's like my emotions and my pride are internally fighting.
    My memory is bad and my point I can't remember,
    I often wonder why God allowed me to be born that day in December,
    My temper has a tempo that is on a lower scale,
    I failed in my failure because I was so afraid to fail.
    I don't know what I'm saying or what I really mean,
    I only make sense to myself when I sense myself being me,
    I am like things you've forgotten only to cherish them when you remember them,
    My thoughts make no sense until I start to dismember them.
    ©robmarshall