...Is not one with a dead end,
...Is one led by someone else.
...Is one where you can't express yourself.
...Is one where you're used by someone else
To express themselves.

*You may as well be dead.

I look up,
To the cotton skies*
They Beckon me.
To a land, far away
With gleeful people
A land of prosperity.

I look up,
To the cotton skies.
They beckon me.
Away from the sorrow,
Far from turmoil
I wish to flee.

I look up,
To the cotton skies
I get some clarity.
This turmoil is home,
Gaiety, the enemy.

I look up,
To the cotton skies
One thought in mind.
This is my life.
My life in the cotton fields.

I am complicated
No one really understands me.
Sometimes, even I  don't.
I'm like a world full of mysteries,
nothing's ever certain around me.
I constantly change of mind,
think about something,
and act all the way around.
I am complicated.
I'm hard to define,
it can be a mess,
and yet, strangely *beautiful.

With pen and pad in hand,
I’m finally ready to take a stand.
This is how I get my words out best,
it’s kind of like a written test.
It seems to be the only thing that works
when it comes to you, I get flustered by that smirk.
But something about written words is easier,
I bet you’re starting to wonder if it could get cheesier.
Maybe it’s because of your eyes,
and how they reflect the night skies.
Or how every inch of my body reminds me of you,
it’s like to me, this body is brand new.
My hands, they are now meant to hold yours
or how you’re the one my heart adores.
See my body is no longer my own,
my ownership fell apart with every moan.
Thoughts like this, admissions like this,
seem to get lost amidst each kiss.
That’s why pen and paper are best,
for my admission here can attest.
I get a bit lost when you’re close to me,
our bodies intermixed means you’re all I see.
With a pen in hand, my thoughts aren’t all over,
I don’t feel like so much of a rover.
This is where it’s thoughtless,
where I’m anything but cautious.
So, this is so you know that I love you,
and with pen and pad in hand, it's easy to construe.

We are writers and poets who know how to express
We can define our feelings a lot more or a lot less
Why were we cursed with the ability to feel?
The feelings of life that are so painfully real...

We can make music by writing what we desire
Turning simple paper into a passionate fire
We can sway hearts by symbolizing love and creation
Or break another's by turning words into death and temptation

We are the cursed race of scholars who turn words into weapons
We can draw blood with a phrase in a matter of seconds
We are dedicated authors with emotions so heavy
That one word from us that is read or heard can be deadly

Words are our weapons, our friends and our foes
Even a writer or poet has demons that only we know
Each line is a battle and each piece is a war
We are writers and poets and we will write forevermore