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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
Copyright ©
Sam Storey
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