Here's a poet's plight: To force words to come is a fight; Gorgeous nothings hold no light; Meaning shall not bow to might.
Thirty thousand words or more – All just sounds heard before; But somewhere deeper there's a door, A certain feeling from some core.
Or, in clearer words: I have nothing Great to say, but That shouldn't stop me anyway From speaking when I feel I must; No other way to reverse this rust.
Perfection is a savage Curse to ravage the mind 'Round and round in circles, growing blind.
But of all the stones and stars Or overpriced, shiny cars The greatest gift of all you give Is that you let me gently live.
You accept me as I am, Tarred and scarred and marred with gray, There's a thousand whispers, but they're all okay When they won't be judged anyway.
There's this frustrating little tic Where no words can quite click Because no lovely language can compress or stress enough meaning into a tiny little space That could give a hint of a trace Of the meaning that was felt.
Suffice to say it seems somehow insufficient, Nothing Great, simply true: You're wonderful as you.
Am I boiling beneath your skin yet You waged war When all I wanted was peace Let's explode Paint all over our bodies like canvases I promised to paint you And you promised me pianos and voices Loudly roaring and softly muttering I'm tired of all these promises to never lie Never hurt me You can't guarantee your future Sure as **** not mine So now that your skin Bleeds purple and green From my brush and needle Are you ready To believe me Don't forget to breathe when I boil you through For it was all you You waged war
Artists. INFJ & ISFP. It's about **** time, Andrew