Moles with wings, how is the sky suppose to breathe
From notions of blunt pencils that we never read?
Words baled within the mind, you're prisoner confined in pages aging, facing life setences.
The Size of your pen is,
Still judged by the masses.

There's no peak but pick up the pace without being haste.
Peeking in pools of fame will drown your gaze.

Shoes within rules fit perfectly,
when they broom the room of humes endlessly.