Stabbed the Paper
There's only so far poetry Can go.
Before you let the real you show.
It's kind of ironic how I give you the first Stanza and a poetry form.
For you guys to adorn
But I still feel forlorn.
Poetry is supposed to be my exhaust pipe.
Let the words flow freely through mangles of exhaust pipes
So when it comes out, is just a breath of hot air. Cool and refreshing. Smacking you straight in the face with hot air.
i'm supposed to make my life seem fanciful with a rhyme then alliteration. When you really come down to it my life should just be straightforward. I shouldn't have to brighten up for you to hear me.
When somebody's mad or angry are they elegant or peaceful at the same time.
I'm knocking to put my life through A façade so you can just cleverly try to guess what my mood is through my choice of vernacular.
I used poetry to grab at the dark recesses of my mind. While that might sound cliché to most of you. I want to throw another At you
Hey my darkest hour comes great triumph. Laugh out loud
In my darkest hour when I sit alone I get depressed. Dark thoughts fuel my mind.
How's that for making a cliché my own.
I revisit my past, I past once knew
Not easy to forget.
I feel like I'm pouring gasoline in my mind.
Is dark car substance swishing and washing through my soul.
Not letting me go.
The more more I want to turn my gasoline to steam.
The harder it is to write stuff on paper for you to seem.
Sometimes you just can't elegantly write something on paper. To show how you truly feel.
Sometimes you just stab the paper out of God given anger and will.
Depression is a pain that I hold dear to my heart.
That is hard to come apart.
I sit in my room and let the Turmoil envelop me.
And stare outside of the dark moon sky.
The only open my door in the morning, For nothing for you to see.
Before you let the real you show.
It's kind of ironic how I give you the first Stanza and a poetry form.
For you guys to adorn
But I still feel forlorn.
Poetry is supposed to be my exhaust pipe.
Let the words flow freely through mangles of exhaust pipes
So when it comes out, is just a breath of hot air. Cool and refreshing. Smacking you straight in the face with hot air.
i'm supposed to make my life seem fanciful with a rhyme then alliteration. When you really come down to it my life should just be straightforward. I shouldn't have to brighten up for you to hear me.
When somebody's mad or angry are they elegant or peaceful at the same time.
I'm knocking to put my life through A façade so you can just cleverly try to guess what my mood is through my choice of vernacular.
I used poetry to grab at the dark recesses of my mind. While that might sound cliché to most of you. I want to throw another At you
Hey my darkest hour comes great triumph. Laugh out loud
In my darkest hour when I sit alone I get depressed. Dark thoughts fuel my mind.
How's that for making a cliché my own.
I revisit my past, I past once knew
Not easy to forget.
I feel like I'm pouring gasoline in my mind.
Is dark car substance swishing and washing through my soul.
Not letting me go.
The more more I want to turn my gasoline to steam.
The harder it is to write stuff on paper for you to seem.
Sometimes you just can't elegantly write something on paper. To show how you truly feel.
Sometimes you just stab the paper out of God given anger and will.
Depression is a pain that I hold dear to my heart.
That is hard to come apart.
I sit in my room and let the Turmoil envelop me.
And stare outside of the dark moon sky.
The only open my door in the morning, For nothing for you to see.