::my Art::
|Boomeranq| (A poem by Sketchboi)
Immature hands cannot heave to 2 black skies. Only at dusk his tool flies. He asks is this tool made 2 kill? Or made to be a muse at his will. Impulses tickle his bare hand, Yet still his practice doesn't withstand, The qrip of a true throw. This tool is said 2 find it's master... Better think quick...others' throws are faster. He doesn't want it.... But he loves it.... He hates it.... But he craves it.... He throws it.... And recieves it..... Throwz his burdens into a cycle... Around, around...and around... there's no qett'n rid of this idol. You threw as hard as the seas could see, Yet its taps you on the back with serenity. He asks, why qrasp if the qrip isn't perfect, People tell him perfect isn't perfect. Dreams of one day qett'n his pefect throw, In the dawn, alone, he practices on the low. All niqht, he cries for victory, Only 2 be praised for his misery. Outside eyes see a qreat pitch Within his, only siqht of a poor rich. Thus in the dawn, his hope runs high, The wind assures him a better siqh. This Boomeranq has a hold on you, This is true. Will you accept it? Will you bask in it? Will you live it? Will you cherish it? Will you pursue it? Comfort it? Polish it? Destroy it? .....Be it? In essense, the question Is never answered. It's a part of you. But Throw!..... Throw... Throw......... .........did it help?
-Lil:::Sk3tchboii
