My mouse burns and and my head hurts

Yet I still want to type because I don't like anything else

These poems and rhymes are what keep the cells in my body 

Alive, I know the light in my eyes tells

Or the higher octave in my voice

Fact is, I don't love it by choice

Somehow it came by in my life

Making me both curse and rejoice

For to make a living I got to put the words on the back burner

And any other type of work feels like an endless hot summer

Then poetry comes like a cool breeze, to stop me from being a downer

Songs with lyrics so good that they stun us

You don't need to be from the hood to say something that turn us

The beauty of art, only a true artist can fully appreciate

I hope to be worthy of being called one, perhaps I'm already one but I self-depreciate

My heart is empty and so is my head

I wonder what else can I write about instead