Three raccoons crossed my path, everytime I let them pass, except one lay dead in the road.
I write the same lines again and again, the death of a million feelings.
Someday, an attacker will come and take all that I cherish, leaving only the hours I promised to spend with you, now filled with black funeral roses.
We are all at the mercy of the hands that feeds, a unlawful government.
We are all at the mercy of each other, bunch of psychopaths.
How did things get so wrong?
I can't procrastinate death, time got under my nose, heat stroke or something like that.
I rewrote every word you ever said, “ok, yes, yeah.”
It was like we had never spoken before.
Three raccoons crossed my path, I hit every single one, except one playing dead in the road.

© Junemousonae