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.