Writer's block stroke like ethereal pottery, but just can't touch to feel the pulse. It's nothing to those with that inner zeal poetry, but just lack guts to fill the part. We're Silver lines, the reason our God is enigma's got the World coveting. Uncivilised to us that they can't see...the irony of their stigma is what's got the World conceiving. Thorough Bread always falling on the buttered side, the devil's hate for a Maverick misunderstood. I turn my head against the battered side for the simple sake of managing what's missed under this good. Picture Grandma's souvenirs in the living room, untouchable as if waiting for Jesus himself to come test us. Remember Grandpa's sober years when he was still living, shrewd and uncrushable...you'd have to be a Genius yourself just to reach a consensus. 10 years old words sprouting from this Sinner's mind to growing grey hair...
Man, fear is too old in this World clouding Silver lines from this pouring rain scare...