Blog / Poetry

Couldn’t Be. Then Who?

I am Spartacus.
No, I am. What are you, high?
I’m the real Sparty!
Will the real Spartacus please
stand up and hold-ever-so-still-so-we-can-nail-your-hands-and-the-hands-of-5,999-of-your-best-friends-into-6,000-crosses-please-and-thank-you-it’ll-only-sting-for-a-moment

—————————————————————-

So, the syllable count might be off on this one as well. This is the state my mind is in guys. This is what writing a tanka every night turns you into. It’s not pretty.

P.S. If you like this, you’re pretty weird.

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