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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Strike me in solitude with half-crescent chords, as I breathe for another sun; just one more. Unable to abide by black-rose dreams and bleeding stars; eternity, a chainlink of just.another.day, coiled tedium laced with ribbons of unopiated pain; strummed sostenuto against heartstrings, oiled with oxygenated blood from open wounds.
I dream. Tomorrow, I scream, until vocal cords scratch and disintegrate into flakes of ash, dissolved by the hydrochloric churn drumming diligently; a grenadier marching forward, dreaming not of his wife and children, but tomorrow. Hell, yes; but life; a cake of imperfections and hundred-proof heartache.
Je suis.
Aujourd’hui et demain; je serai.
Juste moi.
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