As I walk past the speeding window of my prose,
I perceive why you left me with nothing but a rose
Never were you a fan of my writing
Hence my insecurities arose
Between us was there never fraternity
I called it infatuation while it was affinity
See, I found in what you hate, what I love
And found in what I love, what you hate
Now I got much to say but somehow I’m inarticulate
You may probably most definitely not like this one either
I just can’t help it, I have the rhyming inborn fever
See, you write how you write
And I write how I write
I can’t write how you write—
That just wouldn’t be right
You don’t get that my gift is too great not to be imitated
If anyone ever tries, their hand would get amputated
They’d lose ink
Fail to think
And their brain cells would sink
All you were was my muse
Terrible, all my writing did to you was amuse
I admit I may have been facetious
I had the words and lost the paper to a fish moth
I needed you to see in me
—What I couldn’t see in being
The truth is, the truth digs all our coffins
My rhymes will keep overflowing
Turning kids into orphans
As I walk past the speeding window of my prose,
I start to feel the love beyond the surface