I Want To Be a Writer

I want to be a writer I want words to worm their way Out of the outer oblivion orchard Where I pick pink pieces of my mind. I want to be a poet I want poppies picked perfectly preserved From the consciously created cracks of concrete Found situated solidly in separated stanzas. I want to be a singer I want sounds seeping from senseful songs Instead of trapped tearing at my terrible tongue As my vocals vanquish my volatile vocabulary. Unfortunately, the aforementioned is abandoned due to abysmal accidents.