Here am I again at something
That can't be done. Ever we strive
For perfection, all in vain,
Failing again, yet again,
As long as we are alive.
What could I say, but say again,
As all that could be
Has been already?
How can I hope to seize
The turbulence inside of me,
And tame my wild sea?
Or should I say the sea is yours?
In those grey-blue eyes
A morning shore lies,
But unlike mine, it's calm.
Your touch is a breeze--a balm
To all my wearied faces
And my mind which ever braces
Against endless stress.
I'm a mess.
And you're so hot,
And now I find
I've got a mind
To hit you for cutting me.
You always look sharp, I mean.
And if you don't one day,
I'd hit on you anyway.

Where am I going with this?
I've given over to comedy
And lost my lyrical end.
Yes, something said truly
Is often hid in humor,
But I wouldn't want to send
Such a choppy peice as this.