I didnt realise that I wasnt cool enough To carry myself with eyes Wide open, Like some enigmatic beauty With no interior design, Someone gazes at clouds making Shapes, People look at the man With a pen and tiny pad,
Their thougts like dandruff On the black polo You bought to impress Her father, Self aware and glare at the living, Painting the swindled Version of the real things, Wiping away the tears Of this mornings' spilled coffee, The 29 year old beggar looks pridedul Enough to know you burn Inside and out comes the Weasal,
I couldnt truly see that I wrote In the most sensible way, A poet defines a classic sight Timeless, wondering When the pièce will be done So he can write about beggar.
A poet is not slave to the mind, And the mind is not a terrible Thing, only when the door closes And last light curls the spectrum, The poet lays the earth in symphonie, afraid that he cannot hear the music, Desparate and hungry For the life he writes.