I must write, for it must be written
Written is how I see this text as I pause, and then reflect
I must, I must recite aloud, ludicrously loud.
As I sit, to impress, to impress I dress
So dignified I will address
Stressed, this is how, how my words cling to this sheet
The untidy hand, handwriting only interpreted by its author
For no stranger neither I, truly understands the implied meaning of this verse
Which rests reassuringly upon a text, it has no idea what it has been chosen to behold
A detailed description, of why the letters inscription
Is clung, to such a material as paper, and not the other way around
Though many trees have come into contact with my head,
I cannot admit to have left an impression of my work imprinted on its bark proud.
Why, then do I sit a rogue rhymer dwelling, not writing on a matter?
Which meditates my thoughts somewhere, somewhat supremely significant
It is precisely ardent that I tell the history of the text
Once scrapped from an extended tool of expression
Trailing characters unarticulated that hadn’t anticipated a crowd.
Never waited upon or rated on, this piece of paper is subjected to bursts of knowledge
Or structured events, either way it rests head strong, line-by-line nature’s sublime
Messages are merely a montage of magnificence, tragically trapped within a self-Representation of a talent torn From tallness, uncultivated, and shun from praise
My ideas rest, a gift for the modern age.
Although feelings of confinement do not posses, it feels great
When reading, what I have extracted off from my chest
My memory remains short, stumped and strained
Writing it down, surrounds this piece with a trace of my reflection
I hold this medium, and project it beyond any sort of recollection
A revolutionary release, of repressed rage.
I might, I might, I shall, and I will, I have a choice, I will
Choose to rest upon this piece of paper, so I can relate, not take and fake
But only so my boredom can be staged, I must write, behold, what’s upon this page…
By Afshin Rohani