A book of rhymes finds its sunshine
in the back street of my mind.
Decides deciduously to shed shackles
like leaves of limitations, and a pen
punches out first principles
and punctuates the playfulness of
my phrases, yes,
writing is loss of identity, tying
up trademark tunes and impregnating the wombs of
imagination with godlike inspirations.
Meaning, breathing, seeming to be bleeding
but leading right back to the beginning:
A book of rhymes finds its sunshine
in the back street of my mind.
Decides deciduously to shed shackles
like leaves of limitations, but
all you can see is that I’m
not paying attention
in your
class.
in the back street of my mind.
Decides deciduously to shed shackles
like leaves of limitations, and a pen
punches out first principles
and punctuates the playfulness of
my phrases, yes,
writing is loss of identity, tying
up trademark tunes and impregnating the wombs of
imagination with godlike inspirations.
Meaning, breathing, seeming to be bleeding
but leading right back to the beginning:
A book of rhymes finds its sunshine
in the back street of my mind.
Decides deciduously to shed shackles
like leaves of limitations, but
all you can see is that I’m
not paying attention
in your
class.
This piece has been published in Teen Ink’s monthly print magazine.
Ada D. 
leaf44
bookthief
Lexie96
ariwrites94
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