But you got to know when to throw your punches
Not every battle should take your time
A life is but a second of good and evil
How’s one to choose when the choice is quickened
Who’s to blame in moments of welcome
The many sad times one faces
Death and love hold the hands of our time
It becomes hard to see the reason
A rhyme without any cadence
Picked apart fabrics of soiled clothes
If we could write it out, would it be any better?
Possibly, but the excitement would be mediocre
Just a book on the shelf.
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