It seems these stifled words for you will always lack music
No matter how smooth or effortless they fall from the vine,
Not ever heard raising a single pitched note into your mind,
And thinking on what to do makes me somewhat muse sick
Knowing words with no tune is just mute say, mute poetry,
A forsaken giant no one sits under, namely the wise Poetree.
Your head is often a mass of undeveloped skull fat flapping
In the wind, and your brain, sand my pressed fingers draw in,
But no matter what messages or 'I'm telling you' premonition,
There they are, erased with every high-rising wave slapping.
Down this fretboard of lines my pen slides, burnin' them all up
By placing a lint of hope in my pocket at its heated ballpoint,
Maturing my words into loud crackling fire eating at the page,
And my lint of hope wishful to be heard now burns with rage!