Time to pay the toll
With your fragile soul
Life unwinding like a scroll
Why do I think in rhyme
Sometimes
It’s all that comes to mind
It makes this sound like a fake stream of consciousness
Sometimes I feel cursed with this
Others I feel blessed
When others talk about writing like its a math test
Something to sweat over
Perhaps writing is my clover
A charm
I use to disarm the harm
Of living on this pain farm
An animal trying to escape my captivity
But no one sees this place as an enemy of our soul
So I drone on and on
Singing the same old sad song
Nothing is right
But our wings are clipped to keep us from flight
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