What a Life, What a War
The pen would always bleed.
Favored or not,
Not something you couldn’t remember,
But something you truly forgot.
Pressure added when it seems to run out,
There’s somehow more,
How did you know that without a doubt?
The pens last little bit begins to pour.
Though you’re rich of language,
The pen is wore,
What a life, what a war.
What’s a fight worth if you don’t get sore?
What’s a word if not for travel of ear?
What grief is deserving if you don’t shed a tear?
What’s the fight in life for if we are not made of love?
What’s missing someone if we’re not called to war?
What’s satisfaction if there is no rhyme to your reason?
State a fact and it’s known as getting even.
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