My father was an artist,
a masterpiece in thieving
He robbed time, love, and sanity
through words, of evil thinking
He would take what is yours,
He wouldn’t ask or barter
It was his to arbor!
Oh right, he could be charming,
Outdoor, he was even fantastic!
However, under the roof, he claims as his
He was the monster that stole our peace!
My father was no doubt a con artist
An actor, a burglar of time
A psychopath hid in a dime!
Well, now he is dead,
paying in flesh
to the worms his final debts.
I’ll go on an adventure. Later, after a deep nap and a strong coffee, repeat. I will go on an adventure. Later.
All good stories always have a dragon. And for a childish reason, I like the mechanical beating of every word that goes out of tune in front of the pale screen that hides the present night a little inside my head.
My name is Lara, I was born in 1984 and I am writing about the worlds build up in my head.