I'm at the brink of my ink,
the more time to think,
the deeper I sink,
it hits the fan,
the room starts to stink,
change the web of my patterns,
trying to see the link,
little extra ****** oil left in my lantern,
my light burns dimly,
you said you won't be quick to ***** a smoldering wick,
I'm tired and sick,
sad stories and tragedies,
got me feeling like faith is a fallacy,
recently all I've had is grief in my gallery,
concerned by my comfort with pain,
tell my brother not to be like professor X but I often do the same,
carry the weight of the world,
thinking that will bring some change.

If you're just about to quit,
jump, hang or slit,
I don't blame you,
this place can break you,
before you leave,
have you ever been?
have you ever seen?
The pitiable prince of peace?
I don't refer to the replicas but the real thing,
the true King,
have you ever picked up his call and let his words ring?
don't leave his message unread,
if you feel like the walking dead,
he's prepared a table for those who,
thirst for water and hunger for bread,
I can't guarantee an easier road,
but I can testify that trusting Jesus lightens the load.

After visiting his gallery,
I was perplexed by his power,
curious of his character,
lopsided by his love.

I hope he gives us enough to hold on.