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To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow, Creeps in this petty pace from day to day, To the last syllable of recorded time; And all our yesterdays have lighted fools The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle! Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player, That struts and frets his hour upon the stage, And then is heard no more. It is a tale Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, Signifying nothing. -The Worthily Beloved William Shakespeare

Thursday, April 8, 2010

Leech Obsession

The guise of my obsession
does coax the wrong impression,
for my session with him passed,
my confessions did not last.

I reaped the bad sower's sorry harvest,
I tore the creater's art and it gashed my guilty chest.

To me he exists a leech,
ravaging my energy,
Tumbles away my old beseech,
and any doubt upon his perjury.
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