Papyrus

Pen to paper and the idiot I write of won’t strike a pose. Though the rhyming brigade might think upon the roses. Then dive deep into the idiot I am and find I only exist on paper. Thus upon the papyrus I write of title waves and quakes shaking cosmic bodies, even at the end of the farthest galaxy away from our tiny minuscule planet, as the glory of God crushes me, destroys me, and eliminates me from speaking properly. As speech is not a friend of mine, this fool I am, as the shadow on the wall of the great and many social gatherings. Pushing brooms about all I can do unless I write. Writing words upon the papyrus and coming to the clues of the only slightly ascertained mind beyond the exosphere, becoming more so clear of the sin I’ve committed, the damage I’ve done, and the enemies I once enlisted into my army of poor pathetic excuses of friends, with our daily meth habits, anti social behavior, and the demonically influenced mind reader philosophies, which saw me low in the dirt and digging the grave of a suicidal stand up comedian standing center stage at a three ring circus side show. But I’d almost believe a million years have passed, although I’ve aged twice as much, yet while time could have elapsed only a single millisecond upon the grandfather clock of the most ancient bible scholars. But maybe… just maybe, I’ve learned a thing or two. You’d never know it by the speech I crumble under the tongue whilst under the weight of insomniac spotlight anxieties, like a speech impediment open mic night showcase at the single man’s social smorgasbord. I can only speak in words… written upon the papyrus.