A Series of Poems

Waves

The etchings on the wall, 

O how sketchings crawled,

They only sprawled as the canvas calls,

A calling so distant yet so close to being heard,

With the volume of intricacy only known to be absurd,

But do not worry these calls can only captivate a herd,

Decisions with precision so listen only to the verse of my words,

This is not a poem with a flow, a low end to the blow of the absolution,

Free-written- so pale that only though I can push the limits of contusions,

Back to the topic at hand with the title "Waves", 

What's written is history so don't offer a softer lofter it's a craving that says-

-the first poem was changed by a few crayons to say that it was lost,

So I sprayed it with paint, painting a new picture for its sake, freeze in the frost,

The plot seems so random there's no hook in this swing,

I catch all emotions and drive it like a nail to a box of opinions so stale in this thing, 

So like waves all climax and crash just like that saying, what am I saying,

Any poem is a decline in the pain of grain of a window pane to realise its insane.