The Angels

When I’m older, I’ll write poetry all day.
Poetry people will cry, sing and pray.
About the hazy California sunset
Where I buried the fat fuck-faced-freak.
My first crush.

And the ink will be my blood,
Assonance, rhyme running through my veins,
Exhaling symbolism into a misty cloud of meaning,
My touch carving feelings into paper.
And the ink will be my blood.

When I’m older, the rhythmic of poetry will rock my world
As I’ll stare into the future,
Reliving the cold, bare, black room
Where beat took what I was prepared to give:
The regular shadows, my childhood innocence,
My adolescent nightmares.

And the ink will be my blood,
Assonance, rhyme running through my veins,
Exhaling symbolism into a misty cloud of meaning,
My touch carving feelings into paper.
And the ink will be my blood.

When I’m older?
When I’m older, I’ll die.
And I can’t deny that, leaving this life I manned,
I’ll die with paper in my hand.

07/10/07