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 wine.

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FOUND

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