We don't always get the poems that we want.
Sometimes we get the poems that we need.
Sometimes we get poems we can only read once.
Sometimes we write poems and the words bleed
Through the page or shine through the screen
Because they let us admit to ourselves we have low self-esteem
Although we have self love and it all doesn't mean,
It just lives inside us, surviving feeding on dreams
All the words I write, hundred poems I've rambled
Instead of playing more games, instead of flipping more channels,
I write these words for you in an attempt to light a candle
To ever so slightly brighten your life that you CAN handle
Poetry, words, arrangements, collections
All brought together by love and affection,
Various sorts, but the ones most prominent
Are the ones that I feel that are also ominous
Like I just want to write, and it feels sort of dark
And the words sometimes shed light by breaking my heart
And taking what I thought I knew, and then tearing that apart
But from the breaks I grow, the breaks where I make art
Although it's hardly art to me, I still sit and write
I might as well when all my other acts yield nothing, slighted.
No offense to them, but they're not always invited
To the space inside my heart because they don't yield products
More often than not, I'm just a simple consumer
Trying to amuse or numb myself with the fastest lights, sooner
And once the lights turn out, I turn off and sleep
And inside me, something really deep cries out,
It asks me, "What do you make? Who do you help?
What do you save? Where's your progress? What have you done?
Do you have any answers? Do you even have one?"
Yes. I just write poems and try to help people,
And it feels pretty good sometimes.
Mar 18, 2018
Mar 18, 2018 at 6:39 PM UTC
We don't always get the poems that we want.
Sometimes we get the poems that we need.
Sometimes we get poems we can only read once.
Sometimes we write poems and the words bleed
Through the page or shine through the screen
Because they let us admit to ourselves we have low self-esteem
Although we have self love and it all doesn't mean,
It just lives inside us, surviving feeding on dreams
All the words I write, hundred poems I've rambled
Instead of playing more games, instead of flipping more channels,
I write these words for you in an attempt to light a candle
To ever so slightly brighten your life that you CAN handle
Poetry, words, arrangements, collections
All brought together by love and affection,
Various sorts, but the ones most prominent
Are the ones that I feel that are also ominous
Like I just want to write, and it feels sort of dark
And the words sometimes shed light by breaking my heart
And taking what I thought I knew, and then tearing that apart
But from the breaks I grow, the breaks where I make art
Although it's hardly art to me, I still sit and write
I might as well when all my other acts yield nothing, slighted.
No offense to them, but they're not always invited
To the space inside my heart because they don't yield products
More often than not, I'm just a simple consumer
Trying to amuse or numb myself with the fastest lights, sooner
And once the lights turn out, I turn off and sleep
And inside me, something really deep cries out,
It asks me, "What do you make? Who do you help?
What do you save? Where's your progress? What have you done?
Do you have any answers? Do you even have one?"
Yes. I just write poems and try to help people,
And it feels pretty good sometimes.