Racing through the forest of my mind,
An unescapable doom I find
Whose dark depths intrigue
The bearer of all woe.
It starts with the past . . .
Something of a mis-made cast
Whose purpose distorts the future
With imperfections and flaws.
Yet present finds the day,
Whose worldly problems often pay
For the anxiety and pressure
Of an inevitable failure.
Future then comes last,
Often leaving me aghast,
For if the past and present shape the future,
There will mature a loser.
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Feel free to add whatever you like! I like to think of language as a form of poetry, expressing the right to free speech and embracing individuality. However, please do not be disrespectful.