Head low, I read the most, sent home with teacher-notes
But I ace the tests, I’m the one kid they leave alone
College-level eighth grade, my comprehension space-age
Novels getting waylaid, I often need to change pace, I’m way late
So what should I be doing in my lessons?
I know that if I turned a total truant I’d be questioned
My Gameboy would make noise incessant there
Ain’t toys that make choices like this impressive - but wait
If I’m getting super bored with all the placers of letters
Then I can write my own words and I’ll make all them better
Okay, wait, uh. How do you do that?
It’s too bad that writing books is something that new at.
Oh well, that’s life, I’m never off of the ambition hook
Catch me with a pencil and a pocket composition book
And I fill every page, I’m judging it overzealous
And insisting it’s a book, cus I’m touchy about novellas

And seldom doing anything but keeping on my gold plots
Where me and all my friends fought with neo-Nazi robots
Who ended the world and had animal heads for imagery
I wrote book two but I couldn’t finish the trilogy
High school, I’m starting up another book with superheroes
Self-insert again, no critic I’m just too new to hear those
It’s complex I’m writing out chintzy romantic subplots
And I work on book two - this isn’t a man for oneshots
But I’ve turned a little overaware of my shortcomings
And the concept I was hoping to snare’s not forthcoming
And none of this could ever get published, I’m more judging
These pastures I should up and be done with for more sunning
So I turn from full books to the subject of short stories
By now I write at home so I’m published it’s so boring
Not a man to reward that, plots to land in a morass
Form rejections - what the heck is proper manuscript format?

Now I’m planning to work fast and I’m proud of my shit
Because I struggle to write words for an hour or six
And get thirteen hundred, but sometimes becoming public
Ten months of microfiction and I grind a hundred published

I audition blogfiction oft getting lost in it
Not in the top with the gods but I’m not dipping
People say that word number million is a milestone
At which you’re deemed not a civilian and you write gold
Hardly want to mention that, starting at a tenth of that,
But that one mark becomes a star in my attention fast
Stories into blogs and onto dissertating essays
To sonnets-cycles woven for exhilarating mesdames

To fanfiction novels that are actually novel-length
To the very raps that I can pass into my novice tapes
Now I’m just a sliver from the goal that I had courted then
And instead of half a thousand words a day I can do four or ten
And sometimes all my characters will talk to me
Pushing through time til I inherited the prophecy

But I’ve turned a little overaware of my shortcomings
And the concept I was hoping to snare’s not forthcoming
And none of this could ever get published, I’m more judging
These pastures I should up and be done with for more sunning