In the depth of the night
in the dead silent- thinking about suicide as a pass time
Wondering if I was a killer in my past life,
a passing life, passing interests in unfamiliar colours
In amongst the ideals of some men, not so ideal for others
close mindsets, but ideas all distant cousins
In an irony cliche— all the racism one could give
words seeming much darker on criticizing a dark skin

Throwing a scissors in the sea
cutting my blues, and slicing a sharp mind's eye
But I'm still a little blind in my doubts for a future to see
Fortunes match the brave; misery paved in the ways
of yesterday's mistakes. Not as concrete to proudly say
I belong to the streets
Simply cos of a veranda setting; I'm sort of in between,
in between crying in reality, and being lost in dreams
in between tucking hope, or untidy faithfulness of a loose belt
I smelt the wettness of her eyes, a shattered mirror of pain I felt
ice in her knees; she buckled sometimes in love
A girl who told me her story- un glory, the unholy of feeding
a desire, quicken by how many times the flesh will starve

A little boy in the corner forced to be a man
cornered by unrealistic rules to a hustle and sketchy plans
"I don't know what I'm doing," he says to those who don't
understand. "You're not a man if not blown by a woman's
gagging words, to say you've got a fan," so said the always
abused man

Cycle of events
the wheel of misfortunes, and a tired cliche
But who actually listens anyway- we all like to
pretend we're okay. Just moving on with our days,
mundane experiences; Monday blues everyday slowly
becoming serious. Series of events, another episode
in the seasonal depression, sleeping restless, in the
oppressiveness, and my saddened aggressiveness.

Feeling as less —don't you realize we're
all a little sad. Life that has made you feeble;
we're all sometimes this sad people
Sad people, sad people, sad people