I've been whining about the same things
for a little bit too long.
This is no poetry; it's bullshit.
I find myself in possession of
a kind heart and an impatient mind;
A fucking paradox.
My hands cling despairingly a unloaded gun,
There is no help if I can't shoot it dead.
My feeble body holds a sea inside it,
but my Kraken is fast asleep and
the words walk on tiptoe around it.
The beats of my heart are a numb sound
that echoes inside my silence
inside myself.
If I can't get the beauty,
give me some of that ugliness.
Just don't let me floating
in this calm ocean
of unsponken words.
Make it rough, make it hurt;
Make it come out burning.
I want to feel it all.
I think it's time for a little more violence.
The white paper, paint it red.
I want to see the poetry gush
from my guts
when I load that gun
and shoot it dead.
*
Título inspirado neles, porque quando eu crescer, quero fazer poesia igual ao fall out boy:
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