Vernacular used to by my specialty,
but it feels like that is no longer my reality.
I used to write glorious tales of heroes and villains with pictures to show,
whether or not I still have that skill I just don't know...
I turned my tongue to poetry and rhyme,
encountering the feeling that venting was a crime.
Depression crept in like a demon that waited at my doorstep,
when it sunk in I did my best to keep in step...
Slowly I turned again, to song,
yet my every action still set wrong...
I made myself a promise,
and I am a man of my world.
I know life cannot possibly be a breeze,
but one day I am determined to sing of my own trees.
I've grown into a different man,
brighter future, better lyrics, better plan.
And I won't stop no matter what hate,
I'm sorry critics but you are too late.
I will sing what I please,
and my mind shall rest at ease.