You see I believe it's the fear we dread
and the fact that we're lead
to face our hearts but we fled
to higher hills and we spread
the idea you keep to within and embed
and that it's not okay to share what's truly in your head.
Sadly, we have all been misled.
You are human and there is passion within you
You may presume
it takes some else to approve
or to nod their head for you to include
what good your heart can produce?
I implore you, to pick up this pursuit.
I'd like to explain to you how to derive these remarks
sometimes you have to venture within, embracing the dark
or other times you use the good within you to provide the spark
But no matter what, commit to expressing your heart within quotation marks.
This process will fill your heart up and make it heavy
the emotions will run high and it will break the levy
And as it rushes out of you, embrace the empty.
For me this process has always been plenty
but I'll tell you often times the sight's not pretty.
Poetry is not about being cute or getting a head start
And it's not about being able to present analytically in a flow chart
It's about making something you can call your work of art
For me, an inspiration strikes me, that pulls at my heart
and then it winds me tightly, until it splinters me apart
and the random words begin to bounce around a la carte.
This feeling overwhelms me and I begin to depart.
But to where? It's a place that is dark, and I'm not sure what to call it.
But I know it's easy to find for a functioning alcoholic.
It's a place where music is hypnotic
and you sense a level of hurt that is catastrophic
and where the ghosts that haunt you will turn demonic
and what ends up on my paper is just a touch psychotic.
When I get home at night, I pour a good scotch
My heart can feel for the most so I just sit back and watch
as it masochistically grabs a post so I can add another notch
and I won't shy away to almost duck or to dodge
From putting my hurt on a paper because it helps me dislodge
the falsification that my wants in this life have projected a mere mirage.
As I stand here before you, I realize perhaps I have disclosed too much
No, you see that is what this is about
Be free to express and not care that others doubt
that what you are is beautiful within and throughout
and that you're true to yourself no matter what the route
and sometimes you embrace your flaws but you let that shit out
Let your heart's ink spill and see what she writes about.
It's about making something you can call your work of art
For me, an inspiration strikes me, that pulls at my heart
and then it winds me tightly, until it splinters me apart
and the random words begin to bounce around a la carte.
This feeling overwhelms me and I begin to depart.
But to where? It's a place that is dark, and I'm not sure what to call it.
But I know it's easy to find for a functioning alcoholic.
It's a place where music is hypnotic
and you sense a level of hurt that is catastrophic
and where the ghosts that haunt you will turn demonic
and what ends up on my paper is just a touch psychotic.
When I get home at night, I pour a good scotch
My heart can feel for the most so I just sit back and watch
as it masochistically grabs a post so I can add another notch
and I won't shy away to almost duck or to dodge
From putting my hurt on a paper because it helps me dislodge
the falsification that my wants in this life have projected a mere mirage.
As I stand here before you, I realize perhaps I have disclosed too much
No, you see that is what this is about
Be free to express and not care that others doubt
that what you are is beautiful within and throughout
and that you're true to yourself no matter what the route
and sometimes you embrace your flaws but you let that shit out
Let your heart's ink spill and see what she writes about.
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