A writer
pens a book...

To be like some bugs...
Oh and be squashed by feet...

one drop...

So I want to rhyme, is that a crime?
I can assure you is not a waste of time...

Inside of this huge mug I call my world
I am the size of a small bug...

If I ever was like the grass as green,
And you, as radiant as the sun...

I have missed writing... punching, punching keys
in the keyboard as if I was punching a punching...

Itchy, itchy, little witch
Have you thrown a potion on my skin...

Scattered around a field of daisies
a little bird, without a fear...

slipping
slipping...

I feel
like music notes are listened to by just reading...

Ah, thunder strikes again
All that remains are ashes...