I have the soul of a poet, the heart of the sea,
I drink sparkling cheap Moet, so I don't see.
The grimness and darkness, of the world that I live in,
The cry of the fledglings with unspun wings.
The kind looks on faces with many deep wrinkles,
Hear the gentle sweet buzzing of the hundreds of bees.
I drink down the serum designed by the gods, to make my brain never to work,
But the hate and the anger, the sadness and madness, leaves me tossing until I come back to birth.
So I pick up the pen, the paper the journal with the fury of one who see's what is,
The wraps and the chains, strapped fast to our brains, that once we shake off is eternal bliss.
I preach hate and pain, from a broken heart, that I smashed into smithereens,
The love I feel scares me so I take back the anger, knowing that without would be so serene.
So I pick up the bottle, instead of the pen, knowing that it will kiss me goodnight,
Then I put down the bottle, the smoke and the paper, the pen gives me the will to continue the fight.
