I think of the beauty sown, rather then the weed plucked.

I refuse to write about the sadness life has cursed us with.

I will build my own forge, with which I am the smith.

I am the pen and life is the paper.

If you’re doing it right, there’ll be no eraser.

Fuck your poem of grief.

I contemplate of things only in sync.

I think of joyous times.

To avoid life’s despondent rhymes.

Everyone has experienced some form of struggle.

Unfortunately, no one pays attention until the rebuttal.

If everyone solely talked of past sorrows,

My heart would feel like old bone marrow.

Slowly loosing density with every wave of grievance.

I pledge my attention to achievement.

I choose to dedicate toward purgation.

Only straying to hydrate with Ninkasi total domination.

Where your mind is, your heart will soon follow.

Explode with adventure, seek not to be hollow.

If all you seek is to feel, then maybe this is the wrong appeal.

I believe in a better life; one I imagine to be surreal.

Wake up expecting to accomplish what was not feasible yesterday.

Astonish the world, laugh and say this is only your Tuesday.

Some say their grief is their lover, but I listen to the beat of a different drummer.