Don’t feel like reading,
Only feel like writing.
Because I’m tired of singing,
And all I’m doing is waiting.
My face sunburnt red,
My nose makes me look like Rudolph,
And my forehead looks terrible,
Lots of lotions to help me out.
The music plays,
As I sit outside,
There was a rainbow,
A little while ago.
I’m too lazy to make dinner,
And my company should be returning,
More sooner than later,
And they just might bring something with them.
The clouds are big from my balcony,
Breaking the blue sky,
Not letting the sun down,
And teasing with the idea of rain.
A branch broken below,
From the ratty old tree behind the fence,
Sounds emulating from the building across the way,
And the time just flies by on another long weekend.
And here I write,
For the sake of keeping myself busy,
Waiting for something new and exciting,
To call or arrive.
My two patio chairs are what I sit on,
Comfortable for plastic,
And they point me in the direction,
Of the sun now breaking through.
Comfortability is an artform,
That I try to master,
In all the spare time in the world,
For me and no one else.
I notice my thoughts are pouring out,
In one giant rant,
Not making much sense for you,
But this seems to be working for me.
It just seems to be,
A good time killer,
To write anything I want,
In as much space as I want.
No one to say put a period
Here.
And no one to say put a period
There.
I can type anything I like,
Much to the chagrin of someone,
I’m sure,
But I dance a cocky little dance.
The neighbours stir around their car below,
A crappy little piece of shit,
But he still drives it like it purrs,
Like a kitten of course.
I can smell the gas come up from above,
As he pulls out of his stall,
Out to pollute the world,
With that old rust bucket.
The air freshens now that he’s gone,
And I look up to find two guys,
On another balcony,
Looking at the sunburnt kid with a laptop on his balcony.
Green leaves.
A little bird on the branch with green leaves,
Flies to the ground,
To inspect the rocks below.
Flying away,
After sensing my wandering eye upon it,
And now nothing really catches my eye,
For the time being.
Hit the save button before you forget,
Save it with a good name,
No, not that,
That’s a stupid name.
Oh well, it was up to you,
I think to myself too much,
Wouldn’t you say?
I would.
I think that bird is back,
Playing around a little pine,
Hiding from my wandering eye,
But it’ll be back.
All this rambling is making no sense,
I’m thinking I might as well stop,
For the sake of you the reader,
And the keyboard for being mercilessly being pushed.
Only feel like writing.
Because I’m tired of singing,
And all I’m doing is waiting.
My face sunburnt red,
My nose makes me look like Rudolph,
And my forehead looks terrible,
Lots of lotions to help me out.
The music plays,
As I sit outside,
There was a rainbow,
A little while ago.
I’m too lazy to make dinner,
And my company should be returning,
More sooner than later,
And they just might bring something with them.
The clouds are big from my balcony,
Breaking the blue sky,
Not letting the sun down,
And teasing with the idea of rain.
A branch broken below,
From the ratty old tree behind the fence,
Sounds emulating from the building across the way,
And the time just flies by on another long weekend.
And here I write,
For the sake of keeping myself busy,
Waiting for something new and exciting,
To call or arrive.
My two patio chairs are what I sit on,
Comfortable for plastic,
And they point me in the direction,
Of the sun now breaking through.
Comfortability is an artform,
That I try to master,
In all the spare time in the world,
For me and no one else.
I notice my thoughts are pouring out,
In one giant rant,
Not making much sense for you,
But this seems to be working for me.
It just seems to be,
A good time killer,
To write anything I want,
In as much space as I want.
No one to say put a period
Here.
And no one to say put a period
There.
I can type anything I like,
Much to the chagrin of someone,
I’m sure,
But I dance a cocky little dance.
The neighbours stir around their car below,
A crappy little piece of shit,
But he still drives it like it purrs,
Like a kitten of course.
I can smell the gas come up from above,
As he pulls out of his stall,
Out to pollute the world,
With that old rust bucket.
The air freshens now that he’s gone,
And I look up to find two guys,
On another balcony,
Looking at the sunburnt kid with a laptop on his balcony.
Green leaves.
A little bird on the branch with green leaves,
Flies to the ground,
To inspect the rocks below.
Flying away,
After sensing my wandering eye upon it,
And now nothing really catches my eye,
For the time being.
Hit the save button before you forget,
Save it with a good name,
No, not that,
That’s a stupid name.
Oh well, it was up to you,
I think to myself too much,
Wouldn’t you say?
I would.
I think that bird is back,
Playing around a little pine,
Hiding from my wandering eye,
But it’ll be back.
All this rambling is making no sense,
I’m thinking I might as well stop,
For the sake of you the reader,
And the keyboard for being mercilessly being pushed.
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