Weary Writer
The truth is I have nothing important to say
The world keeps on spinning day after day
My opinion means squat smoldering away like a boiling pot
I speak of events and worldly causes
Not even an interested peep or cunning applause's
OK I know you say what makes you so different anyway?
Well I speak of truth; I speak in rhythm and rhyme
I speak of happiness, I speak of borrow time
I speak of familiarity, OK maybe I’m a little out of line
But what I really hope is that my words bring a connection
During such a peculiar worldly decline, or perhaps resurrection
Yes the streets are filled with flooded faces
Each one bearing the loneliness from inner places
Maybe just one victim of my written test
How shallow and harden is my lily-white breast
My tongue swaggers hot and cold,
Stop laughing I’ know I’m growing old
But I’m afraid I can’t end this given fight
No rest for the weary and this inkwell tonight
The truth is I have nothing important to say
The world keeps on spinning day after day
Copyright © Laura Mckenzie | Year Posted 2009
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