Turning fear to anger
My nerves are better
Not sure if it’ll last
Cynicism on blast
The anxiety to be beat
Runs naked in the street
Knocking on doors
waking people in their sleep
The rage in my veins
keeps me going at a creep
Hopes become bleak
But my dreams come alive when asleep
Not sure if it’ll last
I’m alive at best
My vision’s in and out
Gotta quit with this doubt
So, Janita, Marvin, and I were chillin’ in the lounge as we distracted her from her creative writing (i believe?) homework. Anyways, she had to write a paper about what she thought a poem was to her and then write a poem about a poem. Marvin and I decided we wanted to give it a try as well. Well, here’s mine! And I dedicate it to basicallynita.
A poem is a collection of cures for the soul to rehearse and immerse
An outlet of creation
A sea of passion
Life seething inside and wrestling with reason
Unleashing the words
Feeling it pass through, releasing the deep rooted curses
This set of rhythyms and rhymes hidden and bound
until the day it sees light and a curious brow
For then, the writers purpose is complete
Feeding the world with his life long fight
Before his final bow, goodnight.
