sunny, with a chance of storms
she said good mourning sunshine,
as he wiped the crust off his eyes;
handed coffee in a mug, and on it's surface inscribed, was the phrased line: "King of the Hive".
But he hasn't felt so kingly, ever since he's been inside
those walls,
with two dogs,
only more convincing just to pine...
over what was, and what could've been, this time.
What hurts, is this rhyme, and having nowhere to confide, but the rhythm within words, because she doesn't understand his mind.
Errors and trials, effort and trying, taken for granted, unappreciated, appearingly despised.
Summized lessons only lessened
the vibe, the chemistry, the passion, but not feeling undignified.
"That's not how it's supposed to work", he stands his ground and asserts, a self improvement journey labels him "asshole" or "jerk".
Must be a weird quirk, to aspire towards divine;
Man, woman and child, the trinity not a trine, one-third of a circle, incompleteness personified.
Here they go for another round; the past didn't go as planned.
Unrecognized is his growth and development as a better man.
His endeavors are never good enough, although intentions are sincere.
Even with no clouds things can't be positively clear.
Turn up the Sizzla, roll up a rizzla; try to combat the fear...
Of once again waking up and she's no longer there.
the pain can't be in vain.
not another, not again, not a game, not a gain.
In seeking shelter through their storms they numbed all sensation to the rain.
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