_The life of a lonely poet..._
A product of the moving circus,
a round of games in endless circles;
I'm still searching for purpose with a pocket
full of dreams, and old family curses.
That's me; like the tree of my family;
quick to leave when there's no options after plan B.
On a money diet; counting ribs of poverty,
in these busy restaurants; dreaming to swipe for meals
with my eyes closed honestly.
It's been so long; since I've been in a space of thought
were I actually belong.
Been a minute since I've written for so long; that the words
flow into a song.
_The life of a lonely poet..._
The skies of his life; turns a different shade of blue,
as he sees everything so beautiful in a different view.
The oceans must have kissed the tips of the sky;
all of which happens inside of his mind.
"I've got sometime to write," he tries to make the most of it,
over some work wi-fi.
Writing about a wife with his talented hand;
_a love, a tradegy, a dream;_ mostly writing about
the things he kind of has or had.
Past tense; into future tense, but the present tense;
are all things being so intense.
The best painters of love, are those not in love,
just a picture in their head of love's _sort of._
"I kind of; know how it feels,"
but a lonely poet is just writing to the audience's appeals.
Is anything real?
_The life of a lonely poet..._
So vicious; like the bites of those rough
kisses. That sinking bite on the lips, of a longest kiss.
So wet as two sinking ships; as the kisses are so deep.
He wishes he was writing for a physical Miss,
and having her straight after; and the taste of her lips.
_Oh what a life of a lonely poet..._
Apr 7, 2022
Apr 7, 2022 at 2:23 PM UTC
_The life of a lonely poet..._
A product of the moving circus,
a round of games in endless circles;
I'm still searching for purpose with a pocket
full of dreams, and old family curses.
That's me; like the tree of my family;
quick to leave when there's no options after plan B.
On a money diet; counting ribs of poverty,
in these busy restaurants; dreaming to swipe for meals
with my eyes closed honestly.
It's been so long; since I've been in a space of thought
were I actually belong.
Been a minute since I've written for so long; that the words
flow into a song.
_The life of a lonely poet..._
The skies of his life; turns a different shade of blue,
as he sees everything so beautiful in a different view.
The oceans must have kissed the tips of the sky;
all of which happens inside of his mind.
"I've got sometime to write," he tries to make the most of it,
over some work wi-fi.
Writing about a wife with his talented hand;
_a love, a tradegy, a dream;_ mostly writing about
the things he kind of has or had.
Past tense; into future tense, but the present tense;
are all things being so intense.
The best painters of love, are those not in love,
just a picture in their head of love's _sort of._
"I kind of; know how it feels,"
but a lonely poet is just writing to the audience's appeals.
Is anything real?
_The life of a lonely poet..._
So vicious; like the bites of those rough
kisses. That sinking bite on the lips, of a longest kiss.
So wet as two sinking ships; as the kisses are so deep.
He wishes he was writing for a physical Miss,
and having her straight after; and the taste of her lips.
_Oh what a life of a lonely poet..._
Request permission to use this poem