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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@zachjpayne
Note the sun;
she mourns the morning,
a veil laid over
her resting face;
so exhausted, now let her sleep:
she has lost another son
to the realm that lies beyond her eyes.
Behold the dawn, in widows’ grey;
no longer a light-footed maid;
there is a hymn
of mourning on her lips.
I, another son,
walk in her train
unfamiliar with these tears;
knowing these clouds will not break,
and rain is to come,
breeding a sickness in fleshly crevasses.
The rain will come
and fill my lungs;
I will sink
all the way Home.
