Them Telling Me

Read. But it's not me being creative. It's me complaining.

Forget the day.

Present I may,

To you this gift,

A thought of Change.

Whence clovers rise,

They seek the wise.

And you they lift,

Above its lies.

Deem cursed their face.

They lost the race.

It's up to you,

Don't search for space.

Now be gone quick,

Their thoughts are sick.

Yet keep mine close,

It's you I pick.

This is must be what Mr. Lannin appreciates. I really do no'now. What makes this plethora of words stuck together in a salad-form better than an average english poem. This still perplexes me. No, Neutral, I'm not mad at your writing, nor His marking. (God I mean). I amn't pissed either. I am simply learning. Yes. This is part of my extracurricular crap. As for the Pascal Test. Bark.

It is time for me to move on. Actually, Neutral might've noted who those words point out. Me and my struggle agains les aurtes. I guess now the meaning of it is 'Them Telling Me'. It's true. Listen to them, Philippe. Enough thinking, enough interrogating. I think it's time to take one's advice, and let it go. Or, similarily, I am also permitted to walk it off.

That was my new beginning. - gasp -For Gypsie's and Hippies' Sake, how much times do I start a blank page. I have one Page - It's called Philippeux Life. And my literal page is called Lłamåsses Hŏtel. No more new beginnings. Simply pen[cil] and paper, and eraser for those ambicious of you. If I dont like the narration, then I scratch it out. Write on the same damn page.

Wow. I just out-off-topic'd my ownself. Bob!

Haavee aa good oonee.

Oh, and the cwecion is: what is your favourite brand?

Beigh. Bé.