He writes poetry
But no one knows

He writes poetry
He writes about love
And loss

He writes about smiles
And frowns

He writes about sorrow
And forgotten towns

He writes about how lost he gets
Caught up in his own mind

He writes poetry to
And about others

But no one knows

Know one knows the depth of his soul
Because they all choose to see the exterior
And that exterior screams

Preppy
And preppy
Don't have souls

Or so they thought
Until the day he was consumed
By his own poetry

Here’s to the feelings that flow
through my veins,

here’s to the love whose trip
was a lot of pain,

here’s to the days
where I am in vain,

and here’s to your heart
that I cant seem to obtain.