While I sit alone in this room I've got crates full of sorrow
Even more filled with shadows That I fish out and ridicule when I'm felling lonely.
I'm lacking sense, but bound in a very specific direction It's phonomenal and unprecedented It's a chip of the old block and a step up the new ladder.
Mr. Scribe, I write to you pen and penchant aimed to pour over a fool left with no more rhymes I'm poeticlly franchised.
I'm in charge for the day in terminal wanderlust I've excited my worst thoughts exorcised what was lost am I a bad seed sprouting up or am I not?
I'm sure what sad is But listless I'm not my lists are never ending and my emotions aren't store-bought and tears, they either decieve or endure me I'm your little golden nugget collecting dust Bored with my own stale and directed thoughts In a place where so much life and loves abound It's amazing how little tempts me from my glass house.