Write with intelligence,
Ignorance will speak.
A blissful gift to social acceptance,
And a standard to hierarchy.
Write with intelligence for it is the true testament to one’s self.
Speak with ignorance for it exemplifies the perfect facade.
Write with intelligence for ignorance only reads.
Speak with ignorance for it allows the mind to flee.
Ignorance is not bliss rather a lack of efficiency within the mind.
With the fabric of intelligence dangling at the balance.

The truth is gregarious and sharp with the world being peeled away by its insensitivity.
With doctors planting gourmet pills to feed the emotional,
Although glut is an impossibility to herculean farce.
For the blasphemy has overgrown into the natural industry
Whose characteristics bespoke religion.
Praying to an idol with hedonism reaching for the hand of Theocentric disposition.
For we were taught," Resent the lies, Accept the truth"
Becoming, "Resent the truth, accept the lies for they are not as avarice.”
Destroying such intelligence to comprehend damnation.
Silky like the kiss of death.
Soft and understanding of such emotions.
Protecting such against the false truth of the universe's intentions.

He lived by the smoke and faded into it.
For as it filled his lungs the wall within him grew weaker.
As the ignorant thoughts of a stress-reliever,
became a morbid death discharging the heart of its hobby to pump.
Pump...Pump...Pump...
He forced these tobacco filled killers farther and farther into his mouth.
To shove down the worries of four kids and a barely surviving laundromat.
Putting his lungs in the washer to polish his good intentions,
and dry them off with two packs a day.
Sequestering the addiction from the one’s who loved him the most.
For it was his duty to remain a role model,
and put himself on the front-lines of the tar massacre occurring in the darkness.
And suppress the killings from the kids of the future,
for his past is a piece of unknown history tucked away safely within the Marlboro Reds.
For his heart was of gold yet his actions didn’t let him live too old.

We are all demagogues in a world controlled by despots,
A world where we have grown afraid to denude the powerful
And sequester the impoverished under the sheets,
A fear to stick it to the man rather stick with the man.
Although it begins with one life, it ends with countless casualties.
For our definition of what we believe is right, differs from what we believe is good.
The foundation of good, for it is no universal language rather a universal dictum.
With lessons unknown to all, simply comprehended by some.
For only a handful selected by God occupy the hole the devil burned through.
Leaving the delicious gift of persuasion on earth, awaiting the tasting intentions whether good or evil.
Convinced by all with set beliefs while thy axioms remain unknown.

The devil resides within us.
That devil is pleasure,
That devil is temptation,
That devil has no cure.
That devil cannot be exorcised,
That devil is angel in disguise
With wings as long as its lies.
Its halo as black as the actions it wishes upon us
For its eyes conceal the gateway to its soul.
A soul created in the depths of hell
With a dash of pity;
Pity allowing the host to remember they are descendants of good,
With the thought process of the devil
And the intentions of God.

Abandoned and forgotten,
Dark corridors filled with enigmas;
Morbid thoughts, inexplicable actions
Masked in the walls of this desolate place.
The paint, peeling off like the somber secrets waiting to be heard.
The windows, broken and shattered like those whom suffered.
The doors, filled with signs and locks warning of the danger ahead like the gates of hell.
The ceiling, crumbled and fallen through like the people whom inhabited here.
The obscurity and anguish,
Draws me closer, for there is something to be found.
Draws me closer, for it reminds me of something familiar.
Draws me closer, for I feel at peace.
Draws me closer, for I have found myself within the mystery.