I told them I was tired of being local, and they took me as a joker But the punchline of that is I'm the only one with focus You try to vouch for peers, but some people turn into vultures I meant to say voucher, that you receipt after a purchase As some people purchase purpose; ******* in the end coitus Still it was a moment you had enjoyed that introitus
Some do feel small inside; their inferior interiors Not so big as it appears. Just masking hopes with years of fears Spill a bottle of fine wine on me, and my lesser many me's Fine dine around a table of my Lord and my enemies Spit fire of the scolded tongue, but dire in response of having fun Over the moon joy with a heated anger under the sun Not all reach a ****** of their fun—still waiting for it to come
In the third person of the third stanza line They didn't know me as a first person describing I I'm that guy routing for himself in the ways to walk by But the GPS was off to the location, and I have no WiFi
In the cause of this morning rhyme, it seemed fun to write Mixing a wordplay in every line—I've got a childish mind That child inside, wants to live freely but how in this adult life Where being yourself is a crime; so you're a person of omission As they won't see you for as you are, if you don't follow they vision I guess I'm supposed to be chasing women, and calling them ******* Lined out naked perfectly on some exotic beaches Placed on the scales of fame, I'm must be swimming with the fishes
The only time they'd say I left my communicative ways of being local And a yes to having their focus; get rich and buy yourself a lotus Smoke some flowers, while deflowering flower's with a magnum opus As that's the art of the world's composer, I try to keep my composure Breathes in I'm just most certainly tired of being so local Perhaps I'll die in the crowd to be considered folklore But I remain local
The egotistic, unrealistic quotes of thinking about bars, With the obvious prison of your caged mind. It’s a force enforcing me to rhyme at every line So it makes every write a question of, what rhymes are left, And which rhyme of the bunch seems right to align It gets so out of hand; out of control, to seem like a lyrical man But lyrically— I don’t follow a plan, or a rhyme scheme As random as a Tuesday dream. We don’t get to choose what we see No scripted story, to detail life’s most critical scenes No make believe, of the way we live. As in the ways to stay alive, Is to survive in life’s performance; that’s always live I’m cursed to rhyme
Growing kids, calling each other “bra” A mark of the memory on the back. Our favourite line in strap Of really how we loved to rap(talk) As keen as a king, to ***** people off royally A bald man could say it boldly in bold—of all the lies he sold But I doubt he’d have a heir; and that’s not so fair But of the lies he sold; comes it’s fare And that’s just a small example of the chaos inside Inside my mind; a few seconds of exercise to stand the test of time I’m cursed to rhyme
Hey there Mr Rhythm; I’ll introduce you to Miss Flow Marrying the two, but don’t diss their force As to reach the terms of getting them to divorce One is a gulf of words; finding the best stroke in her golf course For I know enough words…no never mind There has to be a better rhyme to find, as I’m cursed to rhyme
The fourth stanza—a search for an answer As only the few of my hand had of some. I’m quite handsome The sensitive guy, who loves to write, and all and all Always cursed to rhyme
For sow the wiz and for that the bliss Flee through the apple tree It is harvest times Now jam and sweet like pie Oh the bliss of a midnight sky
We plied and plowed and for that the bliss Fill up a room, no one to miss It is now harvest times Us to remember the Queen of ages Don't forget to pay the wages Oh the bliss of lovers gazes
Further down the deep deep blue Of ocean wonders, to remind of all the ships that went through Rough patches of ill willed weather and stormy faiths I hope we all remember that it is to Christ we stand our faith
Oh the bliss of Life Oh the bliss of Faith
Oh the bliss of Summers mother leaving heaps of Love on the stairs For those who not have the bliss of being sometimes missed By someone who actually cares even just a little bear lonely in the woods a quiet autumn afternoon Not knowing when winter starts or when to say hello to the moon
Who to say good night, good morning or good bye When you are a lonely cub in the woods and your mama was a wish on a star.
Not sure what this is. Maybe some inner child thing talking? Sometimes i just write what comes up in my head. a And here is something I just wrote. Hope someone finds it worthy and feel something...