Classic Poem

All the wonderful music,
Wouldn’t dare the clouds to return,
Overtop the grave site,
And leave me scratching, screaming.
The most beautiful people,
Would never call the sun here,
Overtop my engraved rock,
And leave me warm, screaming.
All the hate in the world,
Would pull me out backwards,
Spin me for the world to see,
And pull the spine out of the back of me.
My fingernails will turn to wood,
And the splinters underneath are mine to keep,
My heart will turn from black to red,
And bleed with healing with such immolation of tradition.
I will make the most wonder fullest music,
And dare the clouds to return,
And set overtop the grave site;
Where I remain scratching, screaming.