I Am Not An Architecht Poem by celine charcoal

scaffolding a house,
again from ruined mistakes,
retiring a period of time,
from a mouthfull of respects,
assigning to a duty of
disease
a bad breathe.
smoking a fume.
which something burns,
when something dies,
someone cries,
when things are not supposed to
elevate a panic.
a crime,
is what ruins a circle,
from running into circles.
circles
in circles,
in circles,
perish my recitation.
but,
when I realize nothing is perfect,
I irritate an attact.
who will mourn now?
In this perpendicular
triangle,
curving stupidity,
I was trapped,
but now I beg for a salvation.
out of this time
pedestrians walk out of rhyme.
I want mine.
Give me whichever is mine.