Praise as incentive can't nearly touch
Explaining why I have written so much.
I may tend to treat some pleasant behaviors
As a comforting mix of addiction and savior.
Might my serotonin be slightly amiss?
I suppose, but it won't account for this
Unhealthy rate at which produce.
Therefore it's natural that I deduce
My brain must have more than one thing out of place.
People all over write of some pretty face,
But I tend to view this model with doubt.
I do it too, but I also write out
Into the world's treasure (That's everything else).
In addition I write poems trained toward myself.
My brain thinks there's poetry nigh everywhere.
Everything's a metaphor for everything there.
Life's a metaphor for football. Reversed, it might be true.
Wind scatters leaves out to the world as better teachers do.
The act of writing can compare to any other act.
The nights are lit by memories; new lands unclothed by maps.
A person who is muse enough can be like any thing:
Their bodies lakes, eyes libraries, their words unburdened wings,
But no less inspiration do I find in all the outside world.
God's in movies. Cliffs are bookshelves. I hardly need a girl.
More verse must always flow from my believing thus,
For it becomes the map and flashlight which I use to suss
Out some buried truth long forgot throughout the world,
Or, in failing that, another chance to win a girl.
Explaining why I have written so much.
I may tend to treat some pleasant behaviors
As a comforting mix of addiction and savior.
Might my serotonin be slightly amiss?
I suppose, but it won't account for this
Unhealthy rate at which produce.
Therefore it's natural that I deduce
My brain must have more than one thing out of place.
People all over write of some pretty face,
But I tend to view this model with doubt.
I do it too, but I also write out
Into the world's treasure (That's everything else).
In addition I write poems trained toward myself.
My brain thinks there's poetry nigh everywhere.
Everything's a metaphor for everything there.
Life's a metaphor for football. Reversed, it might be true.
Wind scatters leaves out to the world as better teachers do.
The act of writing can compare to any other act.
The nights are lit by memories; new lands unclothed by maps.
A person who is muse enough can be like any thing:
Their bodies lakes, eyes libraries, their words unburdened wings,
But no less inspiration do I find in all the outside world.
God's in movies. Cliffs are bookshelves. I hardly need a girl.
More verse must always flow from my believing thus,
For it becomes the map and flashlight which I use to suss
Out some buried truth long forgot throughout the world,
Or, in failing that, another chance to win a girl.
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