in my tiny corner
I reach for something small
just a paper if it be that
and some lead to scratch something
for if I don’t
I very well will go insane
in this tiny corner
I have become acquainted with
what shall I write is
yet is the mystery
for it I continue to write about
what then will I do when I find myself in a dark room
with nothing to see but the fuzzy shapes
so precise and small
you can’t even describe them.
however, even silhouettes can be seen
and they have the biggest secrets and stories to find
I could still write about an analogy or metaphor
but how fun are they, and who is to say I am good at them.
I would rather stare outside
continue to let the words spill out,
talking in circles and use improper grammar
just to keep the most skeptic or lose-fitting reader engaged
Because that is what I write.
Not that I need something from this
for I have all I need, my corner, and paper
and on a day when fate might smile,
some lead to write something down.
Isn’t it better to be satisfied by a small corner
when my bones shall ache, but my body kept warm
Where my mind is free, and my soul could fly.
Then to be diss-satisfied by a larger space
Where my fat hangs out and my body slugs around
That my mind be in a daze and my heart to move slower.
Nay, I shall stay where I am, feel what I can
figure out what I do
I shall live in my being
learn from my corner, and when fate doesn’t smile
I sill won’t worry instead I will be content in my corner.