(no subject)
While I sit alone in this room I've got crates full of sorrow, Even more filled with shadows, That i fish out and ridicule
when I'm felling lonely.
I'm lacking sense, but bound in a very specific direction, It's phenomenal and unprecedented, It's a chip of the old block
and a step up the new ladder.
Mr. Scribe, I write to you: pen and penchant aimed to pour over a fool left with no more rhymes
I'm poetically franchised.
I'm in charge for the day in terminal wanderlust, I've excited my worst thoughts, exorcised what was lost
am i a bad seed sprouting up or am i not?
I'm sure what sad is, But listless I'm not, my lists are never ending, and my emotions aren't store-bought and tears, they either deceive or endure me
I'm your little golden nugget collecting dust Bored with my own stale and directed thoughts
In a place where so much life and loves abound, It's amazing how little tempts me from my glass house.