all this time, i've yet to come to terms with certain words
for instance, design, and all of its nuance
how do i design in true
when i am a shard of
azure experience in the
endlessness of midnight blue?
all this time, i've yet to call my good form to return
for instance, my designs, and all the nuances --
the water drains, shallow now,
from my composition,
as if i'm the desert, when once,
i was my own oasis.
reflection is a given. still,
how can i reflect this ill
in good faith, when the
poisonous sick saw my
leg up ascend into ruins?
i wanted to write a song
something that will tell you how i feel
for when i have trouble telling what's real.
you tried to force me to sing.
when you don't get your way
you get mad.
if you can't catch a break
you get sad.
what am i supposed to do with that.
i said stop the complements
you when right on ahead
did what you thought was best.
maybe that's not for me
you're not what i really need
but i can't say that.
i wanted to write a song
you were trapped in my mind
but i can't put word to a melody
and i'm not confident enough to sing
i don't want to give you this
don't want to give you hard thought of lyrics
you don't deserve the spotlight
if you cant even act right
this is about me
what i want and what i need
so ill hide meanings in the lyrics
to be deciphered not be conquered.
no one else will know whos in this
and that will be that. my song.
f you who made me write this. i hope one day ill get you out of my head
I write until I tune my head
with my heart.
are the knobs
that twist my heart strings to the right
This is how I feel when I feel inspiration but don't know what to say about it
Attentive student of the songs of birds,
No beakèd beast hath e'er more sweetly trill'd
A pair of notes or call'd in major thirds
Or minor with musicality more skill'd.
Adaptive linguist, practic'd in the tongue
Of wingèd feather'd creatures, thou hast writ
Into "The Birdsong Songbook" songs unsung
By birds which yet harmoniously fit.
And though the book began in higher throats
Diversely tun'd by Nature's artful hand
Ere measur'd were the times and tones of notes,
(Which often rest them now upon a stand),
Its finest lines (o'er which I now do rave)
Witness thy penmanship on every stave.
My heart is never valid in the presence of panic
yet I will still take a pen and drag it along paper
as if it were a stamp of my own approval
I will stay up late trying to make my screams sound like poetry
tuning every octave of my pain into a rhyme
— The End —