Will I ever commit to writing?
Let my skills go to waste,
Continue working this 9-5,
Which I hate,
Let slip this love for words, thrown together in mind scattered haste?
Forget all the books I read,
Lives I have lived,
Lessons I have learned
Will I ever commit to myself?
Maybe I should die writing this,
It’d be more poetic than these lines
A lost poet, who knows not himself
Mid-stroke, his heart gave out,
He loved too much, he’d seen enough.
Is that really all I am?
All I’m supposed to be?
Owned by lover’s rage,
He could never fill a page,
My long-gone papa,
Has he been watching me,
On a big screen TV,
Like I thought when I was three?
Does my mind rest with his?
Is he out there, all alone?
Did I consume his soul,
My bones feel so old
Do we really walk alone,
Stone bones, would we ever know?
Blanc Thoughts 