Glorified Rants
At least I think that’s what they’re called,
Or I think that’s what they mean,
When they say my words are pretty,
Or my prideful thought is greed.
And I think they know deep down,
When they see it on my face|
All the red with blush and giddy,
Or the pale from pulse a race|
Though I know my tears are honest,
And I know my grins are real,
That there's something always missing,
There's some thing I still don't feel.
But I'll still put pen to paper,
I'll still hold the books beside
Me while I write down my problems,
Call it art that people buy.
I'll still share the things online,
I'll still send them to my friends.
Stuff that's all just done in vain.
I could simply rant instead.