My poetry is lazy, my poetry is shy
my poetry is insecure, her confidence doubts why
to speak, to share, to advocate
though her purpose serves to propogate
the silly initial reluctance I struggle with each day, minuite, hour
I sit here strumming guitar strings like cowboys sail the seven seas
and my poetry wonders how its past has come to be

My poetry wonders how its future will come to be
my poetry wonders how its present will continue to be
yet all the while, each day minute hour
I sit here like staples binding pages of pudding and my mom is sleeping
upstairs, peacefully

Is there ever a stagnant peacefully?
Is there ever a stagnant misfortune?
"well that is that and this is this"