written on round edges, but my pen still gives ink
voices in my head criticize; I don't care what they think
giving my all, exerting smudged words on blank pages
every single sense rages, living the life of minimum wages
not necessarily in depth, no more than a hair's breath
from going off deep-ends with hands folded on my breast
this glowing yellow penned in blue, on my wilted papyrus
ideas breaking out violently, surging for you like mind's lust
trying to see in 20/20 but my news report just lacks
it's not so bright and sunny with the world balanced on my back
scribbling out pre and suffixes, discarding the gramatic kiss
life is a louisville slugger, most often a swing and a miss
"A plague on both your families", I Mercutio will resist
if we evolved from apes, why do these monkies still exist?
I'm snooping for clues so I may discover your hidden beauty
brushing for mental fingerprints but you hands still elude me
I get the feeling of flying, so I relish this 300 foot drop
the world's smallest violin will do, as long as it doesnt stop
If we were two peas in a pod, You'd still be one of a kind
I write these songs for the deaf, teachin music theory to the blind
wishing I could confide my all, the notion seems quite absurd
Label me a Braile Writer, babe, I just want you to feel my words...

Peace

__________________
Life isn't a bitch...
she's just sick of being personified -Sage Francis