I'm not a poet
I can't call myself that
Giving my remedy a name requires a tag
And demeans its value
I'm merely a person that seeks consolation
In written word
They are my born children
And never, for the life of me, have I raised a child out of boredom
Never did I sit and wanted to summon
My feels if they wouldn't come on their own
They may not be much to read
But they are much to feel
Every single one has a dear story
Stained with tears and smeared with agony
Others are Untitled, brittle while drear
Melancholy's bastards
And, boy, do these adolescents have attitude problems
Often had to use my whip when they refused
To disobey the rules of language
But, you see, verses at this age have their own tempo
And I don't dare to use them to make a living; I ain't no bard
Begging at the court of a king
My children
They know I'm a frequent bleeder
And when I need a breather they know better not to act up
They gimme that tender look ,they say Mamma, don't bother
Worrying about the script
Lay your feels on our lean shoulders
And we shall carry them for you
And we shall arrange them for you
And we shall sing them in a Soul Ballad for you
And I got nothing but to smile at the thought
That my lil ones have grown
They be talking like adults, acting all high and mighty
Still not dropping that prone attitude ,though
They may not be the trendiest at school
But at home, y'all be sure they are the realist
And though I've long bled all my insecurities away (I lie)
And all my dejection and existential crises away (I lie)
I still get the urge to tell my stories to strangers i won't meet
Having a bunch of anonymous eyes read my linguistic bleats
See, i'm not a great speaker
I just read a lot, and when I'm tired of words
I read faces
And when the words don't come out flowing like a river
And eyes shy away from my gaze
I know that I'm not feeling enough
And there no need to waste my ink
So my dear friend,
There is nothing called a Writer's Block
Your pen
Just believes it isn't the time to bleed yet.
I can't call myself that
Giving my remedy a name requires a tag
And demeans its value
I'm merely a person that seeks consolation
In written word
They are my born children
And never, for the life of me, have I raised a child out of boredom
Never did I sit and wanted to summon
My feels if they wouldn't come on their own
They may not be much to read
But they are much to feel
Every single one has a dear story
Stained with tears and smeared with agony
Others are Untitled, brittle while drear
Melancholy's bastards
And, boy, do these adolescents have attitude problems
Often had to use my whip when they refused
To disobey the rules of language
But, you see, verses at this age have their own tempo
And I don't dare to use them to make a living; I ain't no bard
Begging at the court of a king
My children
They know I'm a frequent bleeder
And when I need a breather they know better not to act up
They gimme that tender look ,they say Mamma, don't bother
Worrying about the script
Lay your feels on our lean shoulders
And we shall carry them for you
And we shall arrange them for you
And we shall sing them in a Soul Ballad for you
And I got nothing but to smile at the thought
That my lil ones have grown
They be talking like adults, acting all high and mighty
Still not dropping that prone attitude ,though
They may not be the trendiest at school
But at home, y'all be sure they are the realist
And though I've long bled all my insecurities away (I lie)
And all my dejection and existential crises away (I lie)
I still get the urge to tell my stories to strangers i won't meet
Having a bunch of anonymous eyes read my linguistic bleats
See, i'm not a great speaker
I just read a lot, and when I'm tired of words
I read faces
And when the words don't come out flowing like a river
And eyes shy away from my gaze
I know that I'm not feeling enough
And there no need to waste my ink
So my dear friend,
There is nothing called a Writer's Block
Your pen
Just believes it isn't the time to bleed yet.
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