I may not be great,
but I am a poet.
My mind escapes my thoughts in jumbles,
uneven rhymes,
Messy couplets,
but I am a poet.
I don't always fancy what write,
but I write to be free,
some people don't like it,
that's easy to see.
but my mind doesn't make sense,
that's the beauty of poetry,
my thoughts are my own,
your minds are beyond me.
like all easy metaphors,
a bird or a tree,
my freedom and strength,
It's personal to me.
I remember being younger when the playground was in bloom,
You told me that I had a choice to use just one; But whom?
The slide was overcrowded and I could never get a ride,
May this envy be contagious?
These naughts of mine that always rise come as dreams in cages?
I might recon that is so,
Yesterday as I sat down it started then to snow.
Four corners set each way,
And I still sit in the box.
The left could sin me,
Right could win me,
Front or back could block.
I could become a famous tool,
Or infamously triumph,
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