Selling a song

I try to sleep late at night

I can not sleep I am up at daylight

My bedsheets in my motel room smell like bleach

I am in purgatory with heaven just out of reach

I am the Captain of my boat but I see an iceberg ahead

I am addicted to coffee when I need to worry about bread

I pick up women like a spider picks a fly

I try and tell the truth but I only get laid when I lie

I pick up subliminal clues from the Holy Ghost around

The spirits of Native Indians whisper from the ground

Mowgli needs a people it is Jungle out there in the book

He is a pawn trying to be king when he should lookout for his rook

or Maybe he is confused and just young and won’t understand

When you are poor and hungry you don’t get to make no demand

Maybe he is sick and dying of cancer of the heart

Maybe he is a blabbermouth who can not stop what he chose to start

Maybe he just wants to be rich and anonymous at the same time

Maybe he is apologetic for his past and his accidental crime

Maybe there are too many maybes in this poem for you to relate

Poetry died with Harry Potter and Television taught you to hate

Maybe he just wants to get paid to hear the jazz

Maybe he is just sick of the bullshit and his own pizzazz

Maybe he wants to get paid for writing cents per word

Maybe he would rather read the Journal and solve the crossword

Maybe you are not able to fathom his mind

Maybe genius likes to hide when Kardashians are easier to find

Maybe poets and rappers just like to hop hop and diss

Maybe you too are underpaid overworked and drowning in the piss

Maybe that was a poem you cannot say on the TV

Maybe Carlin died and all is left is mediocre comedy

Maybe I don’t care how long this poem goes long

Poetry never paid a dime but I am trying to sell a song

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Author: Ajay Ohri

http://about.me/ajayohri

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