Riots From Rhymes

There are only so many pages and so many stages Of life I can riddle and write on through Until the paper's a waste, and the words are bad taste And I can't tell fiction from true Until the pen is bleeding and loves are leaving And my cursive has gone too far Eventually the trees start screaming that I'm not worth redeeming And I don't know who you are The notebook is finding it detests it's binding And the lines are just scribbles and scars The pencils revolted, and the erasers remolded And the calligraphy has taken up arms There are only so many minutes and moment, of clarity and atonement That the typewriter is willing to hold A quill and a quiver, and how do they differ When the reading light has become so cold There are riots from rhymes in tempestuous times And I am growing so weary now When I sit down to write, of love and of spite And whatever my pen will allow There are only so many nights and so many slights I can sit and stand to record With words as my weapon, to make the pain lessen It's time to trade in for the sword