It’s never too easy to glide with words and voice thoughts;

Mistakes are inevitable—

Feverish thoughts echo like a caveman.

Intentions are worded skewed and mistaken as foolish.

Strong winds deliver a mighty blow to a growing tree;

Alas, I’m a fool, as falling leaves should never be found in one of my circus—

Had I not indulged in the metaphor, chaos beyond control wouldn’t have been unleashed.

How heartless it seems, but bleeding is not what I want you to feel or think—

It’s the gushing pain I want to send, not a thousand knives juggled as a clown.

I may have gone out and become a catalyst of mischief in the grave.