Grammarian With Hiccups Poem by Ray Mesa

And of reasons I can't explain
Of explanations I can't detail
What seems to make most sense during fallen rain
has now become something weak and frail
I am a man of spoken beauty
In my eyes, grammer don't matter
Beauty can be spellt wrong it still is the same word
Does a artist start over when they use the wrong paint?
Does a songbird wait to pluck the right cord?
Does anyone have right to copyright my heart and pain?

I'll tell you this, Spelling matters not to a eleven year old boy
Writing a poem to a the girl of his dreams
And cheesy lines don't seem to annoy
Does not seem to bother the poetic sprit that has to bleed
My work, Is my own
My problems are my own
So when I leave, when I'm gone
Just carve what you what on my bones

But I'm still alive so let's let me live
The fraction of the cost means nothing to me
I just have to say I would enjoy my words to be printed
This is not a raised eye brow, this is not a hint
I want to become something everyone knows
I want people to use my name as a metaphor
I just don't know about myself
But I do know I just want to not be this version of me anymore

I may never be more then a school newsletter poet
I may never become anything, I know this
But I would prefer the world to see
The soul that dwells inside me
Then to let my words burn like ash
I prefer to have everyone get to know and see
The spirit that is inside me
For I’m a professional disgrace, one step away from the grave
If I die tonight I don’t expect flowers but I do expect a glower
A terse eulogy, one with fireworks near the end
To make sure that everyone that stays to the end, are indeed still my good ol’ friends

If I swallow too much water then cut out my throat
If I get too far in tell me to get out
If I die say I’m sad will you buy me the rope?
If I say I’m gone will you take me home?