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Rhyme This

written by: G.R. Weslo



Never once did I find, as I sat on a hard chair, that life was ever just or fair.
I played those fun games, and even played them well, but after passing "go" I found myself in Hell. 
It's a real long story, perhaps one you've heard, among the gossip and talks or from a chirping bird.
Was something I did wrong, or even worse, right?
That question repeats every fucking night.
When I backed up by life, in a cage or corner, I tightened my hands closed my eyes to the horror.
My heart is made of stone and my tongue dipped in silver, but I never had a teacher and never knew the giver.
When the moon was full of blues even then, I found myself quickly outgrowing other's shoes. 
When the long day is done, without any worthy lesson learned, I make myself take inventory of everything I haven't learned. 
I never thought my life was bad, nor did I think it was good. But I recognized too often I seldom got what I should. 
I felt love through the hate and beauty in the filth.
I witnessed splendor in the absence of such, and following the stories on paper or in a book, using a careful eye and watchful look.
So here I sit in the corner of a circle, on the top of the floor. Asking for no charity or expecting a miracle.
As my story turns over and my tale wraps up, the day starts to fall like a tired pup. 
The moon and sun switch as the day keeps falling, now I'd love to talk more but that's my history calling.

G.R. Weslo

G.R. Weslo

Writing is the only way I can be the crazy out of my head
G.R. Weslo

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