Just what makes my pen so sharp?
What frayed the strings on my harp?
Some days, I can't help but wonder why
I'm plagued by this Smoldering Sky.
*******, if grit's just not ingrained,
and sickly sewn into my DNA.
Sometimes, my brain tells me ****
that onto these pages I must spit.
I can taste the dirt in my mouth
and feel the fires from the Deep South.
I don't always mean the things I say,
but when I do, stay out of my way.
They call me "Father," because I preach,
but it's just 'cause I feel besieged.
When you've got devils at your throat,
you really wish God would just smote.
NO MERCY is tattooed upon my back,
but it's not because the virtue's lacked.
All my life, I've had people attack
and leave me battered, blue and black.
Yes, upon poetic lines I bleed to death,
but I'm resurrected by life's regrets.
I've never wished I hadn't been born,
but on occasion I've felt forlorn.
I've had friends call me "Killjoy,"
but I'm not the Reaper's envoy.
Well, not unless I'm provoked--
in which case, you'll find I'm no joke.
Yeah, so you see I have some grit.
I can be refined, but I'd rather spit.
If you don't like the words I write,
well, I won't lose no sleep at night.
I had so much fun writing this.