A poem, you ask?
I sit here and think, wondering what
we are,
when doors are shut
Tight and hard.
Alright, I will come with you for the trippy fight;
also, came with my freshly chewed skin,
All the prose and adjectives are here
We’ll keep them the way they have always been.
Let me give you a guilt trip with rich metaphors
Like the whispers you heard last night,
we’re beautifully demonic; we walk like angels.
A war against the world, you say? would you dare?
When next time you come to fight beside me
I’ll remember everything you tried to shatter,
But my question is , are you here because it matters
Or for the fame that comes later?
Things that matter.
Fiiiiireballl!!
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I hate fame, fame is for losers.
I would be happy to have some forests and trees, that’s all.
And may I win or may I fall,
I am here because it has to be.
And I never wanted to be.
But I guess this is what you expect from a loser.
Like I am one.
While you are many.
Even if I would win,
I wasn’t in your skin.
So I wouldn’t earn any fame,
because all I am is lame.
The marshial matters,
but its not me.
I am just the guy with the hat made of straw.
Like I eat my food, better cold and raw.
Don’t follow me,
But be follow each other.
(They won’t know what hit em.) ❤
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Love your writing. Love your subtitle – I rant and write. Unique! I’m back from an absence and hope you stop by. I have new writing tactics to share.
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I appreciate your style….a question that invites reflection without leading! Thank you for writing from your heart! Christina, Oak Ridge, TN
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