Once upon a midnight,windy, Graveyard heavy, tombstone weary, Rose a man of great renowned- The writer of which works can be found Classroom sat in many a volume galore. As the news and folk declare- The dead whose lungs again took in air, The writer who now stood before- T’was Poe (and raven) of “Nevermore”.
“So if it be daemon, omen, curse or hex-” In deciding action next, he spoke forth these words of old, “I have been given further morrow, time of which furthers my sorrow, Yet if I may this new life borrow- borrow perhaps to bring prose more- In the hope,to continue prose more- Pen to paper I’ll restore.”
Many a night spent struggling to create rhymes anew, Edgar realized how language had changed, For **** no longer meant to slay, and his beloved had turned to bae! On his desk the perched bird had flown- To say these words in had it flown- Quoth the Raven “Just use Rhymezone.”
there are so many twists and turns that I can’t seem to follow and I’m getting frustrated.
where is the start and where is the end? and why is it so confusing?
i can’t sit still—my legs want to get up and go but my brain is too tired for that right now. i stay seated and try to untangle what is the big grey lump in my skull, trying to figure out what it’s trying to say.
but it’s illegible and i can’t, like a foreign language I don’t recognize.
hopefully as i spill out on to what was a blank sheet of paper i can break through those knots and maybe comprehend the load of thoughts running through and around each other in the space of my body that has been assigned to them.
i only wish i knew for certain that there would finally be a break through and that i will know what I should be knowing.
gathering myself might help as I feel as if i’m spread across a massive surface that i can’t seem to find all the pieces of myself on.
but how can I find myself when I barely know myself?
when i find out, i’ll let you know.
This is an edited and shorter version of a very messy poem I wrote in high school. So like 8+ years ago.