A poet is a nightingale
Who sits in darkness in the wood

He sings to cheer his solitude
With sweet sounds noone's ever heard




"In His Land of Dreams"

Life seems to be consistent with the tresses cascading down from my head
Spiraling out of control with its increasing length
Rather try to tame it to see it's real strength
It may give you the illusion that you have control
But in reality it cannot be tamed
Say what you will but contrary to popular belief
I'm not as complicated as my curls