I’m not a poet,
I can’t write like Poe,
I have no reason to write,
Not like Freneau.

I am just a boy,
Still not quite a man,
There is much I can’t do,
Without you holding my hand.

But in these words,
I find solace,
Though they lack meaning,
Emotion I promise.

Young, and middle class,
I have little to complain,
But for some reason,
I feel boring and plain.