My life is poetry and yours is prose
I can mean things nobody knows
All hidden away in my sweet sharp mind
A thousand guesses are guessed just fine

But they read you better all straight and clear
There's no scheming with rhyme all messy and queer
Though I'm simple enough to decipher and see
For minds majorly lazy nor dullards ain't free

Away, I sit where old red roses bloom
Alone, burning minutes this afternoon
My tears are stuck behind my eyes
This bitter beauty beneath grime disguised

Fumbling around while fair skin bakes
The city is quiet now, make no mistake
I think awhile and then go to wander on
These roses belong to all and so to none

One cool jet of water tries to pass for a fountain
A man in short shorts strides by unaccounted
Laughing at how I’m besotted with my own malaise
I must remind myself that a poet’s task is to praise

But it’s terribly hard to make shields without sarcasm
And loopy concerns will throw wise men toward spasms
It’s almost better to float through hydrocodone dreams wide awake
Than to sing futilely of sand and flights and smiles felt not faked

For this insult to suffering can’t end quickly enough
And the Suessical rhythm leaves much to rebuff
Despite luxurious lucidity the inconsequence falls on
Until next year’s parade and hope of less scorching suns

Because I’m not like the roses I’m not like the water
I’m not like the dude whose shorts won’t go farther
Maybe you’ll realize finally after thrice the **** crows
That my life is poetry but yours is, darling, still prose.