-Wrote on 09.22.2023, Edited on 10.13.2023-
I can write a thousand mawkish poems;
Yet it is too hard to moan for who you are.
I can’t see the purpose of encoding;
Yet it is too intriguing to puff in art.
I can play something random or defined;
Yet nothing compares to eyes aroused.
I can’t hear very trivia in fine lines;
Yet get surrounded will never befoul.
I can do my job and ace daunting roads;
Yet barely sufficing against dire odds.
I can't punt and fold without mind that’s told;
Yet so much temptation – drives me to pop.
Ever my fault hovers and spreads its law,
Moving on means no budge, but tacit roar.
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