They're there, they're there...everywhere, the ring fence that shrouds me from the lare, they're dark, they're white, they fend me off anything bright they rejoice at the end of my every day when I struggle to keep my sorrows at bay What sorrows do I have, you ask? Those that trample an idle man's brain those that gnaw at my insides those that threaten to spill to wither in scarlet, to explode to fountain up, to germinate in my soul. They threaten to spread roots reach my throat and grab my neck get closer and warmer, strangle tight until all the grey clouds take shape in my head. I see shadows of my past self the one with passion, the one where I wanted to dwell, wherever I turn, they appear taunting me of my choices rubbing my face with embers of regret blooming cactii, gleaming thorn on my dwight life. they're there, they're there... everywhere they spell out like rain stain my hand like Macbeth's sin
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