g's world

I'm too shallow to write a verse To wrap around the twists and turns To dwell unto my own, I do Living somebody else's life or my own? Shrouded under piles of thought, I scribble, thinking only of the applause. I'm too shallow to write a verse or two To make ends meet, I'm too cuckoo. I'm not the classic, scratching blue wooing 'em, tearing 'em apart  with every word. I'm not the one who rhymes nor the one with notes for those lyrics. I'm the one who scribbles blotching blue on all my troubles, roiling over moments back and forth, trying to string those stray words, into at least a doggerel.   See, I don't make sense.  I told you, I'm too shallow to pen that sonnet, that ballad, that haiku, that refrain, that ode. I'm forcing it out all that gibberish snowballed  unto mine, to chime and rhyme  but nevertheless I realise in time, I'm to shallow to be read over cheese and