Is it too much to ask,

To keep down the message,

Until it spoils over in grass?

Is it too late to ponder,

That a gifted person,

May walk away from her every slumber,

Because sleep doesn't prevail,

As she steps on a destiny so shoved,

Into spiked walls,

Of a grossly gym locker

It sailed and got stuck in funnel of staled chocolate fudge.

By the backs of dear God,

A trace from leaving behind a precious thought; it, too, coved.

Will it be,

A mightiest touch from He,

Whom He lets; he allows grace,

But baby,

Oh, boy,

Rejection is the swampiest taste.

A hard time no,

Because by his gigantic feet,

Oh, we get on by,

But did she have to walk away,

From a plate,

She surely tried.

A plastic cup was just too wimpy,

I had to pour from an ugly spout,

It was empty!

A better way only God can make happen,

Like it was a never-ending calamity,

My area, like much of a dark cloud,

She wasn't too new or too proper,

Just an eclectic bold skinny-behaved grey nod.

Life, on its own, is like bananas being put up for sale and forgotten,

This disgusting-unrelated awkward humor,

Life with its pavement and roads trailing elsewhere like a little girl,

Helplessly spoiled rotten.