Poetry from a creep.
Oh vegetation,
that spurs imagination.
The Eden of the West,
oh how others might protest,
to our young and free ideas,
with which we sprung panaceas,
that fed minds like us,
one that would not take a bus,
but walk amongst the flowery roads,
and often into homey abodes,
with mutliple bodies,
and very different hobbies,
rather than being the norm,
and sitting in their boring dorms,
they reach out to worlds unknown,
and make themselves ever prone,
with pet crazed loons,
and drunken buffoons.
Old movie dreamers,
and sightseers,
whose voices go down,
for it is each little sound,
That the watcher knows,
The death bell continues to go.
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I've been well. Busy with school myself.