Mind operating on godly pressure
I pick up mine liberating for thoughtly pleasures
Soul toils this space like lost treasure
They told me the soil days are coming for lost leisure
Ink runs through my page, like blood through my veins
Writer’s block is just imprisonment of the brain
Riders lock the rust impediments with a chain
Rail that prism belt, stream of consciousness like a train
Hail the ism felt, and steal the curtainless veil and bail