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Description
'tis my night of creativity, though procrastinated for weeks on end
I shall abuse my time no more, for this list evokes productivity
in a sense of quaint amusement, when did the clock start ticking.
by the recollection of my thoughts, I presume the microwave is to blame
with its chemical mystery and the utter stupidity of characters seen
on virtual display with objects of standard use forced into carousel carnage.
but this poetic description is dodging the query, of what sort shall I squander
hours, days of visual distraction, only masked by piles scientific texts, books
I say, my sole assignment contests for attention but will not receive.
what you ask, and even if you don't, creative writing takes less thought
then of research, which brings me to the tank of chemicals pumped
through my veins like the sparkling presentation of sweltering plasma.
rotating objects ensnared in flames, like the clock to my side, aside from
that, an extra hour added to the pile of wasted—no, bad ideas, bad jokes is
all this is no poetry no research just rotting intelligence, take that cia.
my dear body, I fill you with jiffy pop, pop tats make you cringe, but oh
ho, you'd think these preservatives would preserve my acumen, ramen
again with the puns, nothing makes sense any more absolute nonsense.
yet if this does make sense to you—in your convoluted mind—you obviously
watch too much youtube and have been stalking my imaginary friend.

mere accusations! no, no. I know you have pictures of him~

Description
'tis my night of creativity, though procrastinated for weeks on end
I shall abuse my time no more, for this list evokes productivity
in a sense of quaint amusement, when did the clock start ticking.
by the recollection of my thoughts, I presume the microwave is to blame
with its chemical mystery and the utter stupidity of characters seen
on virtual display with objects of standard use forced into carousel carnage.
but this poetic description is dodging the query, of what sort shall I squander
hours, days of visual distraction, only masked by piles scientific texts, books
I say, my sole assignment contests for attention but will not receive.
what you ask, and even if you don't, creative writing takes less thought
then of research, which brings me to the tank of chemicals pumped
through my veins like the sparkling presentation of sweltering plasma.
rotating objects ensnared in flames, like the clock to my side, aside from
that, an extra hour added to the pile of wasted—no, bad ideas, bad jokes is
all this is no poetry no research just rotting intelligence, take that cia.
my dear body, I fill you with jiffy pop, pop tats make you cringe, but oh
ho, you'd think these preservatives would preserve my acumen, ramen
again with the puns, nothing makes sense any more absolute nonsense.
yet if this does make sense to you—in your convoluted mind—you obviously
watch too much youtube and have been stalking my imaginary friend.

mere accusations! no, no. I know you have pictures of him~