Dead Poets Sit and Write About Everything

Dead poets sit and write about everything

That went wrong while they lived

Too bad nobody cared enough

To push them away from their graves.


Shamefully I sit and waste the night

Pounding a typewriter,

Outside beautiful people enjoy each other,

I’ve got too much to say.


The only shame is that I don’t get paid

For giving you the heads up

I guess its not too late

I’ve still got some whiskey in my cup.


Yet I cannot help but think

That some poor old chap

With a broken heart

Will stumble into my mind

And wish he to could know



This biodegradable world

So sure it’ll make it to the next stage

Is repulsive, it makes me puke

These insipid fools clamoring for success

Life is failure; enjoy it


Heed my call

To swallow your misfortune

Is to know your purpose

Rise against those whom would murder you


How simple these minds are

Yet we refuse to trample them

We are so complacent with lying at the bottom

That we fail to realize our capacities


Be as you wish,

If you want more

Do more


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