By Secundus
Born far too early, yet almost too late
My life the very deference of death,
Of my mother, struggling to abate
Pain, and urge me on to my first sweet breath.
Throughout my life I have advanced with speed,
A race against a group of older peers,
A struggle to slow thought, focus and heed,
The words of others flying through my ears.
My mind is never truly in my hands,
An instrument musicians cannot play,
So difficult to bend to my commands,
Too dangerous to be allowed to stray.
A child of mischief I have always been,
Bowing words to suit an impish refrain,
My wit and charm have often kept me free,
Glib spirit both my greatest gift and pain.
And so it is my words are not my own,
But from a spinning mind, such notes are sprung.
A seed from my subconsciousness is sown,
A song from my own heart which must be sung.
1 comment:
Awesome
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