My lips are still blisterin,
From all that whisperin, that
Made me kinda sick, so I
Search for my chapstick, but
Find in it’s stead,
A pen, orn’ry and red,
That chooses to be used,
And true to my cue, I
Seclude and intrude
On each and every muse-
-ic, -ing, -ment, of my peers.
And its clear I have seared
Every page I have seen
And heard of my herd,
Pulled apart at the seems
Teeming with teams
And half-assessed dreams, that I dreamt
But have since beheaded like queens.
Yet who is the jester? The joker? The fool?
It’s me from your world, your country, your school.
It’s me who coos uncool, and caws too rawly
And so rarely, Even I’m a bit scared of me
No! No fear or fervor is necessary, tremors and
Heartstrings tremble headlines on the Daily.
Oooh, calm, soothe, my tongue, my soul, my lips,
I’ll cool them off but remember all this, or else you
May be blistering, and searching, for my lost chapstick,
But be lacking in trust, ‘cause I used it all up,
Quite a long time before you even lusted that luck.