...And so I have written time and time again, too the point my bones become brittle and my thoughts soon collapse. I feel like I am chasing a two way mirror with no reflection intact. Words begin to form and I am left sitting with just a pen and paper. Never question why I do the things I do. Instead I rather experience for myself the rights and wrongs from left to right. It is all foresight within. It is the battle I can never win. With feelings mixing this illusion of me is my only decree. I hate preaching to the choir, but these thoughtless stains bleed so ravenously, and your left wondering what has become of humanity or better yet dignity.
A lost prophet, my father yes, a dead thought was me at best. Rhymes are easy to write but to dictate life into lines, is more than a lie. Life, strife, one's will to have a never ending perception is the will to have some type of comprehension of what nightmares may come. It seems my hypocrisy has no bounds. It is in these words that contradicts everything every man once heard.
A lost prophet, my father yes, a dead thought was me at best. Rhymes are easy to write but to dictate life into lines, is more than a lie. Life, strife, one's will to have a never ending perception is the will to have some type of comprehension of what nightmares may come. It seems my hypocrisy has no bounds. It is in these words that contradicts everything every man once heard.