I could shadow the voice of Baudelaire
And write tragic dark lines of flowers in pain
I could refrence Neruda or sit on a happy cloud with Blake
I could get drunk off Bukowski and steal from his grave
Or *** some dharma off of Kerouac while mispronouncing his name
And the list goes on
As does their influnce and voice
And they all slip in from time to tragic rhyme
We are all but theives
And death will make liars of us all
When our bodies turn to dust
In the **** and dirt of our shallow graves
I could...
And I do...
It might be my pen in my hand that I hold
But I don't always have complete control
Just like the heart
Living inside me
Crying inside me
Not wanting to die inside me
Its fire out of my hands
Too hot for my blood
Too pure for my eyes
Its yours now
To break or to hold
To care for or ******
To love or ignore
Its gone wild and rabid
And madly in love
Praying and singing
To you