I used to deny, I used to fake cry (when I wrote)
I’d create a world, made to comply (when I wrote)
I used to fly and to look at the sky (when I wrote)
But so reluctantly, I pretend to try (when I wrote)

Somewhere, it all stopped, the passion dissolved
I hated the ‘rhyming word’ that I never resolved
Everything became a weak mix of numerous styles
I’d used a million voices, but not one of them mine

My instincts despaired, I feared the lost for good
My pen felt foreign to smear, like it never should
My pages remained blank with no stains, no slink
My!!! – Will I ever rhyme again? – I began to think

When I began to think, my body filled with this ink
Every time my heart’d beat, the pen’d start to leak
Spilling: metaphors/stories/future hopes/past glories
Rhymes/rhythm all within them and kept on pouring

Now, I don’t lie. Now, I make you cry (when I write)
I state a world, to you I restate my eye (when I write)
Now, I still fly. Now I look to the sky (when I write)
But most importantly… I honestly try (when I write)

© Ricardo Sexton


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