Poem: This Little Shit

From fingers crossed,

And flowing digits,

Come words of pain,

And words of prestigious,

Thoughts and concepts,

And flowing lyrically,

The endless time spent,

Waxing philosophically.

Some call him,

A stuck-up ass,

A person whose word choices,

Are all he can even grasp,

But he knows it better,

He knows it true,

He knows the songs,

Deep inside all of them,

And you.

He’ll tell the world,

What is new,

And what is not,

A knot of thought,

A collection,

His mind more than a dot,

A pretentious fuck,

This much is true,

For this little shit,

Thinks he’s smarter than you.

Special thanks to: Collin Pearman. 

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