Have to compose from my mind and not my heart
Words fly by and feelings stop at no
When I am dead its hard to live
Its hard to experience everything life is
So writing is again an exercise
In finding what is dead inside.
I want lines
I want the comfort of boundaries
But my airy dreams make me
Just a little bit reckless
I want lines but I am in the middle of a transformation
I cannot seem to make myself color in between
I have my own feather pallet, brushes, and paints
But I refuse to sketch a lie.
Coffee artists caffeinate their canvas
By spilling mocha coca on their essays to grade
Another English teacher is a failed novelist
If only people could bring themselves to read
But punkass kids know they know it all
They only think that the older you get
The more out of touch you seem to be
I think they have a point
In order for things to be as it was when they were a kid
Teachers have to stop forgetting their dreams.
Oh, I know I have a broken muse
These words so heartfelt
Conjured from my thoughts making me cry
It's not that I refused to live
It's that I let myself die
The breath of hopelessness
The memory of you
Are the only demons keeping me alive
I have written many pieces
About death and fading away
It all means what you make it to be
My muse is just within
So it is you who have broken me.
It's my turn now to raise the dead,
So fuck yourself
And get out of my head.