Daydreaming
Just something sad I wrote before the pandemic.
Another verse, another rap, another day, Every guy has something he ought’a say, When he puts his mind, Behind his rhymes, He might only be trying to play.
Men with pens’ righteous favors, Depth of heart, life, and full flavors, Find deepest invention, A soul’s intervention, Gives dead ears new morsels to savor.
My mom was an overworked clerk, Didn’t notice her spirit’s handiwork, I played with machines, Studied arcane transgenes, Being abused by modern berserks.
But my mom never liked to play ball, Always doubted her humorous call, A voice made my memory, Full of teary-eyed energy, A schism born from her affection for dolls.
As I nurse my dreams with my vice, My thoughts of her ethic turn nice, Her love a social adhesion, Caused familial cohesion, A blind boy craving only his freedom, Breaks hearts with each passing season, Finds horror in passing time’s price.
Free laughter in morning phonecalls, Breathe life into rituals banal, The sound of her voice, A gift from the choice, Breaches darkness of my failing cabal.
Each day I wished for intelligence and intrigue, Shocked by demands of a scientific league, How could men feeding their family, Make my hands feel so clammy, Shatters professional amity, In wake of my calamity, Menial labor ‘stead of unbearable fatique.
Yet her honor and chin is held high, Her work, children, rules lived by, A clerk by profession, Helps deaden my obesssion, Listens to confessions, Steers me from transgression, Disepls illusions of nagging gadfly.