The Desk.

Here's another poem I wrote just now. I wasn't in a stupor at the time, so it might not be as good as the stuporpoetry. As a side note, I write all my poems to be sung. Stuporpoem1, for example, is old-school rap. This one here is a slow country song that I call "Salty Rain."

I can listen to the same old Jimmy Buffet songs,
Or walk those same old Grayson heights.
I don't remember much now because it's been so long,
But I do know that I'll never be alright.
So pour the salty rain
And I grow my little garden of pain
A little taller every day and a little more in bloom.
I know I can't go home again, though I sit within my room.

I've told you many times before
That I'm utterly emotionless.
No matter what's to happen next, nothing hurts me anymore
Because I've already felt all the pain there is.
So pour the salty rain
And I'll grow my little garden of pain
A little taller every day and a little more in bloom.
I can't go home again, though I sit within my room.

There was a time when I was young,
And no one knew my name.
But soon I sold my innonence for this witty tongue,
And I wonder why I still have to face each day without a name.
So pour the salty rain,
And I'll grow my little garden of shame
A little taller every day and a little more in bloom.
I'll have to find a home some day, and weave a different loom.