I call this poetry. I have red hair. Enjoy.
The sky is a blanket,
Emblazoned with specks and stars,
Wrapped around a shivering body,
Whose refusal to awaken
Is pivotal to this life,
…is how I should start a poem.
But instead, the red-haired beast that is I,
(I don’t mention that the dye is slowly seeping out
And I’m left with a rusty brown among the fiery red)
Sips at a cup of iced tea
In what is primarily a coffee shop,
Just to be different,
As if the hair wasn’t enough.
An attractive girl walks past and stares,
Mostly likely at the hair,
But also possibly at the strange guy within,
I muse to myself,
Without realising that,
Red-haired men are ghosts in her culture,
Hence the stare.
Resume the Bohemian style,
Writing what I absurdly refer to as
Randomly hitting keys on an out-dated piece of machinery
In the hopes that I’ll stumble upon a masterpiece,
Which’ll turn my rags into riches
Not that I wear rags (I have style; Bohemian, if I recall),
And then I’m struck with Writer’s block,
Or Amateur-composing-something-vaguely-resembling-poetry’s block,
And remain on these lines for far too long,
Until I simply weave my dilemma in,
Trying to be all ingenious and whatnot,
When to be as such is, in fact, clichéd.
18 songs later
And I’m still writing this.
You should’ve listened to your friends,
You would’ve been over this by now.
Over this by now.