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Schörde
My chords become swordsTiny little bladesFloating around in the airThey’re made out of pure soundDirected towards my enemiesWhich come at me in hordesI point and I prayI get on my kneesI plead with the lordNot to be seizedThe lord is not pleasedBut he grants my requestSo off with my headAnd now I can restFor I
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Toker Joker
The poem reflects the chaos and unpredictability of life using poker as a metaphor. It warns against the lurking dangers represented by “the Joker,” highlighting themes of desperation and existential struggle. The narrator grapples with self-doubt and seeks redemption while contemplating the fleeting nature of time and the influence of hidden forces.
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A Billionaire Does Not Care
A millionaire will not share. With you, with me, with anybody. A billionaire does not care. ’bout you, ’bout me, ’bout anybody other than themself…
McDream's Poetry 