Why can’t I write a song?

This world is subjective

It’s all an illusory perspective

There is no right or wrong

Why can’t I write a song

I know my rhythm,my beats,my space

This is an artform I can easily ace.

Oh,I understand my audience fleeting attention

So,Let’s begin without apprehension

This world is both gloomy and glorious

Songs I listen to,rhythmic,mild and melodious

Our minds are not impervious

Words I hear on streets are hilarious

Hideous Hoarding was a trend

Time has come to pause and play and amend

Everything beautiful or ugly,comes to an end

I know my shape and size

How subtle troubling emotions rise

The beat,the bird and the boy

Words that sink in,I thoroughly enjoy

World is a crazy curious playground

Tell me,how this line has a sweet subtle sound

I love everyone,when they aren’t around

World is a magical instrument

It plays tunes only few can grasp

Yet,I observe,I sense and I shine

My lucky number is nine

I hate that style-a porcupine

Play to my beats

After my frivolous lines repeats

World is inner reflection

It gives a taste of both victory and defeats

Rhyming is my latest muse

Detach,dive and let loose

This world is subjective

It’s all an illusory perspective

There is no right or wrong

Why Can’t I write a song

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