Sometimes I feel as grim as the reaper
Like each cold kiss is dragging the coffin deeper
Like I'm the lie in the middle of believer
The dark shadow pulling strings behind the leader
Like the knife lodged deep in the chest of Caesar
Like the kiss planted close on the cheek of Jesus
Maybe it's past baggage from doubtful deceivers
or a symptom of existing in this world of hyenas
I'm a demon, I'm plebeian, I'm as low as amoebas
But you see me in roles of honor like an overachiever
and make me wanna do better than I could ever conceive of,
You're the solution in my beaker
You're the blunt that holds my reefer
The words to every love song and
each voice inside my speakers
The muse behind my poems, every line and meter
Chicken noodle soup to soothe my soul's quixotic fever
You're the herky-popping, double-twisting girl beside the bleachers
supporting me through every obstacle, my personal cheerleader
Simply put--if life was family guy, you would be Peter
if my life was a song, you would be a J. Cole feature
And I wish that I could be the perfect person that you need but
(back to the beginning)
YOU ARE READING
Herban Poetry III
PoetryThe third installation in my an ever-growing collection of original poetry from the mind of a 24-year old pothead. Using alliteration, a mixture of poetic forms, and always paired with a dash of humor, the poems inside address subject such as but n...
