When I commit my thoughts to ink And pen my silly little verses, I rarely even pause to think-- I just repeat your endless curses: I curse myself for misspelled words (And for that stone you call a heart). The meter's off! Oh, how absurd To seal this misery in art. Like a moth flies to a flame, I don't control the things I do-- My pen finds paper, just the same; Two agonies I must pursue. You see, you're always cruel to me, But you are great for poetry.
We break the ceiling and grin and gasp and redefine life for the ones who have merely lived it.
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