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
to chime and rhyme
but nevertheless I realise
I'm to shallow to be read
over cheese and wine.