I start off with a misnomer
I should have called it Oldness
I was supposed to write
Was I born to yield or fight?
And was I to express, to muse?
Or in the silence, I was bound to myself amuse!
I lounge by in sunshine
Counting my confetti poppers
Those need to be launched, to be released
To honor a life that can't be accounted
So to the oldness I bow
For letting me linger around a little more somehow
In a blink and miss matrix..
I was supposed to write
I wasn't supposed to yield, I was bound to fight
The flight of nothing I shun for now
And muse on a misnomer - like I mentioned above!
Newness is oldness with an identity crisis
I hope not!
