Usually I explode words on the page with unflinching hope and accuracy.
A treasure trove or curse, are the days. uplifting souls from blasphemy.
But a tragedy speaks, of everlasting grief, Pictured on a stellar tapestry.
It portrays an unknown that leaves my pen inactive... Great...

She pulls you in with thoughts and wishes.
A fool you've been, got lost in kisses.
And as you fall from within you fog your vision.
So when she's gone your left distraught and livid.
Resent keeps building as you toss the innocence.
And the sentence is lost like the woman in the box your living in.
No talks worth sitting thru, you'd rather dodge the privilege.
But now your alone and insecure, it's the cost of sickness.

But you live with it.

I want to shed my skin and shake the dust.
Not just year of the snake or sin, but also faith and love.
I want to heal from the inside out and not bother with the vain, and lust.
But I regret the trip of craving sick.
Just some appeal that's designed from the pain of us.

I didnt grow up nice, I didnt grow up mean.
I grew up fast, I bullied, then I Went green.
I didnt throw up signs but I've blown up beats.
Too few and too fast but never tongue in cheek.

As the fog piques my vision my pen trembles.
Papers crumple and my head is weathered, I think to myself:

"I wish I could control what I write, tho...
It'd be unusually droll to decide to
Just rhyme about what excites to **** time.

I don't know anyone who would trade lives for picket signs.
To tell the whole world of all those who lived and died.
They're content to check themselves out and stress over ticket times while wondering which way to tint their eyes.

Their sick inside.
A fickle kind.

But in a world of cause and effect with laws in effect,
Did we ever control anything?
Including the applause during sets."...

...And as the fogs pouring in, just beyond four am.
I ask myself, "am I lost? and how far gone is my pen?"
No answer leaves me wondering on til the end
And As the paper crumples I move on to my bed.