waking up at night, not understanding the pain i've caused nor indured.
that was post battle before i start my own war,politicians playing with life like a show.
im not trying to get political in my thoughts but life is always the right we must post.
post mortem i hope my memory will be more than a failed tree with beautiful fruits.

darkness in my heart may stack above the sky, but for sure my rebellion will live on ,
nights of desperation and regret just to light up the same ol' cigarette in the saloon,
the past's hunting all day and night for a trophy to hang above the "wall" in his cocoon,
i want to be consumed by the fumes, letting my failures become the autoimmune fuel,
my will to prove myself as a sour soul turning to his hidden jewels so the devil gets a pistol to his skull,
internal battle made the angel brutal towards the sinful who are hitting the single faithful,
the table of the good and bad is surrounded by bombs ready to release in absurdity.

one day i am so happy to fulfill my own prophecy while in the next i look for the exit,
everything moves in tandem for my vision to change from green to grey from skit to script,
post portem everything might seem too much out of touch for us to really keep the wit,
the only part thats really alive in your body is your soul the rest is a part of the future casket,
contrasts left and right for my own to design, pushing the buttons of life for the rabbits to see.