King of the jungle
Roaring at its fearful prey
Watching through the trees

The idea of poetry is appealing
though I never did believe in its great healing

I halfheartedly believed in the books
now I'm stuck thinking of a hook

Will my words be forever hidden
exhibiting them doesn't seem so given

I feel torn between innocence and sin
but that isn't something to put on your skin

Besides, how can I even put to words
what I'm too afraid to be heard

My melody close to heart
isn't a gallery full of art

Ripe little apple
fresh from the tree
bowed down to Newton
thinking life was a breeze

Fell with a crash
landed in mud
looked to the sky
hoped to be picked up

Well what did she know
but a small little bruise
had nestled upon her
after God's cruel abuse