Day gets tough, I

out-tough it, direct dozens

of fiery narratives, last poetic

pundit– syllabic pugilism, after

today, new truth has risen..  directly

confront the circumstances given– characters

like me slows nary, and no woe, up turbulent

rivers in the most inclement

I row.. your octave is elementary at best–

Work harder than me?  How’s that possible

when you’re always grieving about lack

of rest?  You’re map’s a mess, I’m in a box-like trot 

of redesign, betterment for eversent.  Journal entries

inventory the dents.  Escape with my again-polished

slate.  Review certain dates, re-plate.  Walk past the cake.

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