lyrically speaking

i use to write you poetry that wasn’t very good

but you would always shed a tear that i misunderstood

and so the days of youth are spent and wasted on the young

you no longer shed a tear and no more songs are sung

and sometimes when it’s late at night i hear you call my name

but when i look you’re fast asleep amid the soft mundane

 

and no one meant to be this way from candle light to lamps

distractions always take the stage when keeping off food stamps

and now we’ve come to know the comforts bought while not on sale

and the only thing we lack is passion that regales

cause routine slays the passion that can only dwell and thrive

in spontaneous compassion that struggles to stay alive

in the day to day routine that we just fall into

rivers run dry as time goes by as droughts landscape the view

 

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