Sometimes, it's 7:45 in the morning and you have to write a poem because you haven't slept yet.

Sometimes me and Nate write a poem by flipping a coin and having the heads or tails person write the next line, then flipping it again.  Sometimes I have to write 1000 lines in a row.  But then Nate has to write 200 lines in a row so it's fine.

Sometimes this is the poem we wrote:

Strings

But tight, I am strung through the room so bravely

But soft, my chest is strung up to your rising sun

You are my morning

Do I dare to rise, share the light?

Or cloud over, could I even lock myself up so dark and so tight?

But stop, think of the sky to cover

Your horses are tired and so are mine

And you are not Apollo

Thoroughly labored, pretty and petty

Unable to swallow my treason

Forgetful, unable, revived and unstable

So wretched in thinking my friends are the reason

What is true, what is myth

Who can say for certain?

Honestly, I tried once before

Though my score was settled, I ached for more

Fuck you, Jekyll

I've no reason to Hyde

I'm both monster and man, God and Godless

So brave in my pursuit of you, truth, time

This vague repetition reminds me of rhyme

But why asked the heckler I tried to repress

Why can't I detach these strings from my chest?