FIOLATION

As I sat back relaxed on, on my inclined thoughts. Thoughts of being a boss sort of had me lost. Mom and Dad protecting me the way yours do yours. Life merging death is the absolute course. I don’t know if time passed by relaxes my thoughts, maybe if time stopped still all would be lost. Then again what’s hate to this cause if the cream of the crop will never be destroyed? Rocheny had just finished reading his poem to his group and now he’s about to proceed with his memoir which is his writing assignment to be viewed and read next for constructive criticism and also it is a part of his is fifteen page writing assignment. He’s thinking right now how he can capture his readers in a way that text has never captured someone before. He says to himself, “Will I write about death and trap my reader’s minds so that they feel hopeless in everything they do. Or will I shed light on the many advantages on life having this class being one of them. Will I include the essentials, ‘Sex, Love, and Characteristics?’ Or will I be boring and let the pen take over. I’ll let the pen take over.” There once was a boy who was given a girl’s name. His name was Rochelle, and so that boy came to tell that the eyes of the night do have a smell. Once you’re caught looking, it snatches your hell. It takes your world’s worst nightmares and places them in the time of their heirs. Let them breath deep secrets don’t sell tickets. You’ll lose me now if you don’t retell. He smelled the food from the screen watching commercials of nice cuisines. He seemed to be bleak and teethed on meat. Life of a bully is the nights humped beat. So that boy grew and his voice did too and when pronouncing his name he roared it through, “Rochelle Rochelle Rochelle you fools.” I eat on you because you taught me too! The boy knew right from wrong they said he did. They being rich and now he’s sick. Outside the box he knew his kids. He loved being love just like they did. Now it’s time to collect that debt. Ready on your mark, let’s get set. Finally the time comes to get wet. The women who are soaked, their brains are now lit similar to a light bulb missing its switch. Like a witch the bitch misfits. Excuse my French I’m sucked in. Now that’s intense. There’s more to life that plays the fence, henceforth go to that place that reeks of sour dispense. Tales he tells, now check his sense, he owns little cents. His words he writes will be engraved in tens across the universe until it sinks. Rocheny stops for a few seconds while realizing there is no need to prolong his artistry via ink. So Rocheny then uses his pen as a wand and writes think of this ink being spluttered out from a, from a seahorse who is giving life to all. He minds his own in time with light beneath his legs as he lets go. The snaps back a inks out. All to tell a tail about a true story that will take place tomorrow. He will come in and he will read quietly as others read. Before they read this part he will have a smirk on his face. Someone will ask him why are you smiling and he will say I told you so. After that he will say I wrote this when. Idiots assume because Idiots are Idiots until they aren’t. He said trust me I’m not an Idiot, yes I once was. Idiot.