Sunday, 4 July 2010

Greatest poet who ever lived.

Yo, i knew him before all of you, but it wasn't the him you knew
before he was a prophet he was a poet, and before he was a poet
he was a writer, and before he was a writer he was just like me
and before his projects where poems, his poems where a hobby
The hobby grew and took him to a place where he got to choose
though it only ever seemed like the choice was win, or loose.
and to win for him meant nothing, as the face he saw wasn't his
there was a man from within but but his words came out wrong.
that's what got him into writing, and he would write all day long
an imaginary world where he could write his wrongs
or at least, have them documented. You should read them.
I have them. they're obviously not what you know of him.
but there's something in these works that i think got left behind,
Something that we all leave with a more pure or, naive time.
A man had come and took his place, looked into a mirror and saw another face
but it didn't matter anymore because this face was pretty. and they noticed him, now they liked what he wrote so he had to win
And there where places to go. Shows to watch, no time to stop.
and he never did. God knows if he ever really lived or only, only wrote about it.
The writer I know i believe died a long time ago, and this one was never rated, but was always my favourite.
And that's why, i don't want to state it i hate to say it but i always felt, betrayed.
Like, he changed. We would write and play videogames in his room for days.
everyone thought it was all we knew, when he left there was no way i thought he'd get to where he got to, probably because i didn't even want him to. but, now im here looking at all of you, i guess we all look a little different, depending on the view. He grew. I didn't. But only in the hope he'd one day come back.
So i can't discredit that man, he lived and died for the cause, to get on the stage and feel that applause so when i go if you could at least do that, send him off, with one more clap.