“Nothing worth repeating,
Is ever worth doing”
I remember this line often,
And when I find myself repeating,
I listen to heavy music,
Push on, do press-ups,
Just ignore the f***ing bastard urge,
βThe perfectionism of a random, obtuse action,
Because I don’t want to look like,
I’m having a spasm,
Which is precisely what I’m doing now,
This poem is done,
Goodbye, go to hell.
πͺ
π»πππππ
π πΆπ πͺππππ πͺ 