All the great minds I
have come to
know are now consumed
by the unoriginal.
I choose not to look, for
the looks on their dying
faces seem very
pitiful.
Pen in hand, I work
endlessly, knowing
these words will
carry me out of the
middle world, a place
where I have failed
the people who
see through me.
I'm sorry, but a working
class hero is not something
I wish to be.
My friends think it's
unacceptable, but here I sit,
telling you that dying is
inevitable.
It's these words
that carry me to a
place that's magical,
where all my thoughts,
ideas,
and innovations
are not deemed
impractical.
No money, no fame, and no
security, this is who
I truly am, naked to the
very core. All the
possibilities projected
on me seem like nothing,
but a bore.
Pen being my
only weapon, my imagination
runs wild and free, for it is
the only way I can make people
see.
I pour this drink, in
hopes I can cope and mend,
while the people laugh at
the ideas they can't
seem to comprehend.
Continuing to double
check these answers,
thinking on whether
I should be consumed
by all the hate, while I
contemplate my fate,
and self medicate.
In a reality where
I can't unwind, I
attempt to break free,
trying not to look back
at the family I have
left behind.
These endorphins
continue flowing, and there
are no signs of me slowing,
in a drunken haze, where
I choose not to reminisce
the cost, but rather, I
pour this drink, and
cheers to all
the friends
I have lost.
Nov 8, 2019
Nov 8, 2019 at 12:20 AM UTC
All the great minds I
have come to
know are now consumed
by the unoriginal.
I choose not to look, for
the looks on their dying
faces seem very
pitiful.
Pen in hand, I work
endlessly, knowing
these words will
carry me out of the
middle world, a place
where I have failed
the people who
see through me.
I'm sorry, but a working
class hero is not something
I wish to be.
My friends think it's
unacceptable, but here I sit,
telling you that dying is
inevitable.
It's these words
that carry me to a
place that's magical,
where all my thoughts,
ideas,
and innovations
are not deemed
impractical.
No money, no fame, and no
security, this is who
I truly am, naked to the
very core. All the
possibilities projected
on me seem like nothing,
but a bore.
Pen being my
only weapon, my imagination
runs wild and free, for it is
the only way I can make people
see.
I pour this drink, in
hopes I can cope and mend,
while the people laugh at
the ideas they can't
seem to comprehend.
Continuing to double
check these answers,
thinking on whether
I should be consumed
by all the hate, while I
contemplate my fate,
and self medicate.
In a reality where
I can't unwind, I
attempt to break free,
trying not to look back
at the family I have
left behind.
These endorphins
continue flowing, and there
are no signs of me slowing,
in a drunken haze, where
I choose not to reminisce
the cost, but rather, I
pour this drink, and
cheers to all
the friends
I have lost.