I have the soul of a poet, the heart of the sea.
I drink sparkling cheap moet, so much I don't see,
The grimness and darkness, of the world that I live in,
The cry of the fledglings with unspun wings,
The kind looks on faces, with many deep wrinkles,
hear the gentle sweet buzzing, of hundreds of bees.
I drink down the serum, designed by the Gods, to make my brain forever cease to work.
But the hate and the anger, the sadness the madness, leaves me tossing and turning until I come back to birth.
Consider my father, my mother, my brother, shackled to systems, when they are the one's who know what is best,
My blood and my bone, as sure as stone, thinking in patterns that they never thought to contest.
So I pick up the pen, the paper, the journal, with the fury of one who see's what is.
the wraps and the chains, strapped fast to our brains, that once we shake off is eternal bliss.
The shades on our eyes, the tailor made suits, worn by myself and the children who never matured,
Who found meaning for life, in a mob or a job, worn down by a life that they endured.
So I pick up the bottle instead of the pen, knowing that it will kiss me goodnight,
Then I put down the bottle, the smoke, and the pen, and the paper gives me the will to continue the fight.