My Words

Before my sentences can finish their expressions, words were stolen and hidden from me
I had them in the mind, in a sequence, but I harangued about them
They figured the riled mind is no better place to stay, no that they will be pushed aside
Now excuses will become lavish, and it is satisfying to find someone to blame
Mainly life, yes, the metaphorical flow and along with it my draining consciousness
Time will figure out the moment to make fun of my distractions
I accept that I disadvantaged my passion and diluting it with borrowed anger
Which I willingly participated in, but tricked into a defeat with other words, not in my vocabulary

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