but for me its no chore
sometimes its a bore
as these rhymes i just pour
onto paper, my pen
becomes my best friend
my last mate til the end
on whom i depend
in my hour of need
when my heart here does pleed
and it bleeds
and it feeds
but no comfort it finds
just minds
in their twisted up state
you think your a mate
well ya not so i slate
to the ground with my sound
for up i am wound
and now i astound
but do you all hear
do you listen at all
or is my life to small
to consider at all
wheres my ball
to and fro my feelings throw
so home i go