deadrose, get a phd
Man, I just cant escape poetry.
Do you know how difficult it is to be surrounded by
all the words I hate, all the sentences I hate,
which flow around me, ugly in structure
choking me until I must vomit a poem
between somewhere and somewhen?
My friends, I wont be complete
if I run down a path of numbers.
Though, numbers I find easy, one two three.
Application of such in sciences are easy too three four.
But should I go down a score just for five six
a path which is derived from utter nonsense eight nine?
Mother would be happy
She wants a life simple for me
Me me me,
yet me wants to be more than I could ever see.
Detective Deadrose has a balancing problem, stay or run?
Stay for Grey boredom forever ever more?
Leave for a nation that might topple any second moment,
Hostile to the cloth,
and the rose hidden in its folds?
Just let me write poetry.
Poet I am,
subtle small changer,
I could playfully write about all the stuff
I could excel in,
rather than specialize
and burn out the flame of
passions kept alight between heartbeats of hours.
Ten.