Let me narrate to you all a story
Packed with the absence of fame and glory,
Conceived from a rampant mind
whose purpose and direction remains hard to find;
Will wander from its original point
And minds with murky muck anoint,
Leaving dear reader utterly confused
With the endless befuddling terminology used...
This is a story of a boy, a mirror, and a pen -
A boy who'd observed pain and come back again
Like hallowed heroes of old
Minus adventures brave and bold.
It starts with little hero here -
A loser with a lazy demeanor, I fear -
He'd has a good run at summer camp that year,
He'd discovered a skill and faced a fear
Came back to school;
In September, month so cool
With the frosty autumn chill
With leaves to blow and plants to kill -
Just an ordinary guy
Under a nerdy guise
That had many layers that, when peeled,
A whole new facade would perchance to be revealed...
A stronger person with the power of will
With mind driven and body kept still.
He lived his life without concern for future times;
Created poetry upon thinking, "Hey, that rhymes!"
Again he witnessed, experienced such a joy;
A painful happiness overcame this boy,
Again confused, unable to understand
His meaning of love and what makes a man a man,
What his place in society was,
Why his mind works the way it does...
A hero's story minus the actual pain -
No injuries or adrenaline pumping through veins...
Only trained his weapon on a sheet of paper, and then
His life poured out from the tip of his ballpoint pen,
'Till fingers sore and eyelids heavy
And agitated as an American under a new tax levy...
But happy with his words he became,
Even if they gave him not money and fame,
But more fuel for thought and things to pose about,
More reasons to peer into reflective glass and shout
At that loser staring back at him,
Looking through the looking glass, but not within,
"You're fat, you're ugly, wipe off that grin,
No brain in your head, and fuzz on your chin,
Shut up and sit down - rather, do some crunches!
Your life can't be lived off of feelings and hunches!
Get out of my house, out of my face,
I can't stand the sight of you, get out of this place!"
Our hero didn't sleep that night -
Despite the silence and absence of light...
The next day, our boy was fine,
Free-wheeling, the concern of emotion off his mind,
And the next day, too, and the next after that,
Slowly, he came to find, in fact...
Slowly, by the next summer, our hero
discovered himself, knew his foe
Better, anyway, than he'd like to know...
Our hero fought against himself
To calculating intelligence from pathetic whelp
But still now our hero fails to understand
The meaning of love and what makes a man a man;
Fought himself for all time, and now here he stands,
Speaking of himself in the third person in his personal novel
Expecting an audience at the end to applaud and maybe even grovel...
Realizing that his best assets to his sanity are his best friends
As our hero's existential quest comes to an end.
Packed with the absence of fame and glory,
Conceived from a rampant mind
whose purpose and direction remains hard to find;
Will wander from its original point
And minds with murky muck anoint,
Leaving dear reader utterly confused
With the endless befuddling terminology used...
This is a story of a boy, a mirror, and a pen -
A boy who'd observed pain and come back again
Like hallowed heroes of old
Minus adventures brave and bold.
It starts with little hero here -
A loser with a lazy demeanor, I fear -
He'd has a good run at summer camp that year,
He'd discovered a skill and faced a fear
Came back to school;
In September, month so cool
With the frosty autumn chill
With leaves to blow and plants to kill -
Just an ordinary guy
Under a nerdy guise
That had many layers that, when peeled,
A whole new facade would perchance to be revealed...
A stronger person with the power of will
With mind driven and body kept still.
He lived his life without concern for future times;
Created poetry upon thinking, "Hey, that rhymes!"
Again he witnessed, experienced such a joy;
A painful happiness overcame this boy,
Again confused, unable to understand
His meaning of love and what makes a man a man,
What his place in society was,
Why his mind works the way it does...
A hero's story minus the actual pain -
No injuries or adrenaline pumping through veins...
Only trained his weapon on a sheet of paper, and then
His life poured out from the tip of his ballpoint pen,
'Till fingers sore and eyelids heavy
And agitated as an American under a new tax levy...
But happy with his words he became,
Even if they gave him not money and fame,
But more fuel for thought and things to pose about,
More reasons to peer into reflective glass and shout
At that loser staring back at him,
Looking through the looking glass, but not within,
"You're fat, you're ugly, wipe off that grin,
No brain in your head, and fuzz on your chin,
Shut up and sit down - rather, do some crunches!
Your life can't be lived off of feelings and hunches!
Get out of my house, out of my face,
I can't stand the sight of you, get out of this place!"
Our hero didn't sleep that night -
Despite the silence and absence of light...
The next day, our boy was fine,
Free-wheeling, the concern of emotion off his mind,
And the next day, too, and the next after that,
Slowly, he came to find, in fact...
Slowly, by the next summer, our hero
discovered himself, knew his foe
Better, anyway, than he'd like to know...
Our hero fought against himself
To calculating intelligence from pathetic whelp
But still now our hero fails to understand
The meaning of love and what makes a man a man;
Fought himself for all time, and now here he stands,
Speaking of himself in the third person in his personal novel
Expecting an audience at the end to applaud and maybe even grovel...
Realizing that his best assets to his sanity are his best friends
As our hero's existential quest comes to an end.
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