Kids are cruel,
Realizing you'll never be a ladie's man,
Twelve years old,
Over looked, walked past as if I was laundry,
On the floor of a lackadaisical bachelor.
Questions begin to whirl,
Is it you? Is it me? Am I not physically capable?
See I am as beautiful as my confidence should make me,
Loneliness heavily consumes the boundaries of confidence.
Build your home on stone,
Raise your flag through the tools of war,
Be the loudest war cry so each maiden takes notice.
But I am not a soldier on the frontlines,
I am the poet, in the jail cell writing "The flag was still there."
Staring at the mounds of bodies of more able bodied men than myself,
Holding it in place.
Ramparts are the beating of my screaming heart,
Bullets sent straight from my mouth, tear through the flesh of those who find love to be aloof of,
What creativity truly means.
It means you watch from the sidelines,
While the quarterback walks away with the girl of your dreams,
Soldiers wear uniforms that gleam, sweeping a woman clear off her feet,
Bar fight heroes win her heart by never seeing defeat,
Drug dealers and users trap her with promises they could never keep.
Yet here I am, still sitting in my seat.
There's nothing wrong with making believe,
I guess I just find myself pondering,
It's probably me.
Who cares anyway?