Sometimes I’m sad,
but I’m glad it’s over.
Been trying to stop the smoking,
but then id be sober.
I’m only getting older.
Feel some weight up on my shoulders,
Like a boulder pressing down on me.
I’m a king without a crown, truly.
Scrutiny, they’re mocking me…
I could give a fuck….
Thought about giving up
But I’d be giving up on what?
Possibly on these pipe dreams,
Sometimes they seem so surreal.
Thank god I never based truth
On what I can touch and feel.
I’d be drowning in the fields
of all those messed up emotions.
All I need’s a pen, pad, a view
And ill be coasting…
Boasting and bragging about the things I’ve never had.
Like champagne on jet planes,
Or trying to fight the jet lag.
Tribulation woke me up,
Sat up in my bed.
Could’ve went right back to sleep,
But reached to grab my pen instead.
Talking about the life I chose to show in written context.
Follow the words laid out for you,
It’s really not so complex.
Like raw sex,
If you lack passion,
Then basically you’re just fucking.
So I remind myself to expose my soul,
If not these words mean nothing…
You’re running from the real,
Just realize you’re not so hard to catch….
Look up at the mirror
And ask yourself,
Who’s that looking back………?
Poetry is an affair of sanity, of seeing things as they are.
—Philip Larkin (via poetryeater)