A singing exercise poem

Basically in my horrible voice I came up with a simple melody and started writing a story to it. This is the result!

I write with so many faces.
I write with so many paces.
I write with so many traces.
Of you

And people constantly tell me
How things are supposed to be
Too bad I just wanna be free
of you

So to this rhyme I do contain
Every instance inside my brain
I know, it seems quite insane
cause you

You're harmony, you're a disease
I want rid of you, I want to sneeze
But then secretly  the one I please
is you

Come on Raymond, burn the fire
We can wait the entire hour
I just want to take a shower
with you

a writing exercise if you please
I held this to a melody
And it came out quite lovely
in spite of you

So remember my trodden tail
of a guy who wanted to bail
just to realize he could prevail
if he needed to be rid of you

Shrewd Scowls

I think we all know better than to wait for the leaves to turn red.

Still, I don't doubt that autumn is going to come. 

And it'll be great, people will jeer at the trees shedding their green hue. 

The trees look at us harrowing as they lose their youth.

Why must I die? They ask. 

We just rake their concerns into piles and jump right into them. 

What fun is biodegradable material! 

I can't remember what winter feels like. 

Though I'm in a Starbucks, blasting the a/c to prove a point

fuck mother nature and Sam Champion 

And I still order the iced latte, though I hate coffee

Isn't that what people drink at these places? 

Next time I'll order a Cap'n Crunch from the "secret menu" 

The roads melt in front of my eyes, 

which are red from perspiration and building sweat. 

C'est La Vie, did I spell that right? Oh well it means life is beautiful anyways 

I could have just said it in Spanish, but unless there's an accent to denote a Barcelona inflection none of you would read as high class anyways

I forgot I was describing a mirage. The premise left me. 

Oh well. 

Why thing happen for a reason

Yea, I have the fire now and I'm burning
The flame prevents me from speaking
so instead I took a paper and burnt it
afterwards I rearranged the ashes to make this
If you have lost me, find me in my writing.
If I lose myself, I look for myself in my writing.
And you worry over whether I am true because we hardly spoke
And you worry over whether I am to be trusted because we hardly touched.
And you worry over whether I am worth it because we hardly sang.
But our writing spoke for us.
But our fate touched each other.
But our reluctance sang volumes.
I do not forsake my feelings for temptation.
Instead I expunge them onto the page to remove myself from it.
Do not despair. Do not dwindle. Just grow.
I will always be attentive to a blossoming Star Gazer lily.
Your green bulbous eyes are purple to me.
Your warm smile is white specks to me.
I can only confirm your embrace by uprooting you from the ground.
I have chosen to refrain from doing that.
Please do not withdraw your fragrance from me.
Let me wallow in it a tad longer in order to gain clarity over how I feel. 

One touch

                       We all have our faces up to the glass, but we pretend we're content with simply looking. Much to our dismay the glass often distorts us, fogged by our warm breath when we talk. And so eventually we must transcend the momentary physical barrier. Eventually we must touch. There is no eloquence in introductions until after you've remembered them. The moment you decide to shatter that barrier you invite a warmth to your body. Both physically you feel the warm breath, but also one must take into account the pulse. It vibrates true and eventually the conversation dances along the ever going beat. And you are sync, just for a moment. Waiting to be disrupted by an outside occurrence. Or perhaps you need to yawn or hiccup. Regardless, for a few seconds understanding is possible because you are connected. For a few seconds writing is possible because you have felt it. And so I wrote it.