Write a line, keep it neat, count the words, rhyme it sweet. Should I form? Or freely flow? And what to say, though, who will know? If I pour out, cathartic words, I make absurd, and whipped fear stirs. And who's this muse, who writes through me? Sometimes I read, but that's not me. I read it twice and twice again, I use my thumbs, I crave the pen. I write for me, I write for you, you want a hit, a line or two. I'm not quite sure, I write like drugs, I spend too much time, on this fucking site!