I am the man with verses in his head
without these verses written, I'd be dead.
I'll force a laugh, I'll force a silly rhyme,
a perfect tool, I think, for passing time.
I started bleeding verse in middle school,
a tired loser, rotund and uncool,
but things can change, oh I was loved and lost,
and (natur'lly) by this fucked-up tempest tossed.
I'm in my 20s now, I'm living on,
(and also, by some standards, living wrong)
but I do what I must (and so it goes)
and what will I write next? Nobody knows.
Oh look, a sonnet! but I forced some rhymes.
Thank God I won't hang for that petty crime.
without these verses written, I'd be dead.
I'll force a laugh, I'll force a silly rhyme,
a perfect tool, I think, for passing time.
I started bleeding verse in middle school,
a tired loser, rotund and uncool,
but things can change, oh I was loved and lost,
and (natur'lly) by this fucked-up tempest tossed.
I'm in my 20s now, I'm living on,
(and also, by some standards, living wrong)
but I do what I must (and so it goes)
and what will I write next? Nobody knows.
Oh look, a sonnet! but I forced some rhymes.
Thank God I won't hang for that petty crime.
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A fire, soft and tender, hummed on low,
‘twas smoldering and slowly dying, yes?
A fire, dim, without the will to glow.
The spirit simply wants to shine, impress
the world by resisting what ails it most,
refusing to succumb to pain, duress.
The spirit chooses then to be a host
to optimism, bright but fey, as snow,
and shining like the waves on the coast.
Despite this hope, one never truly knows
if love will ever ultimately win
or if their hope will ultimately grow
to something that’s no longer bound within;
a fire that will rise and sted’ly flow.
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