Walking down that thin line between truth and false hopes,
You see a reel running on both sides,
Nothing can ever be seen at face value,
Didn't they tell you not to judge a book by its cover?

Where do the wild things disappear?
When they pass a notion to become silent,
You being forever on guard for the next wind about you,
Absorb and relentlessly calm,
The constant waves hitting you, just made you resilient

When in doubt, break the glass and fire at will,
Notions of innocence died when they trampled on you,
The tainted green grass will reflect a ****** battle,
Sounds of silence in the wind only came after a downpour,
But it wasn't rain that poured down,
It was your reign in the shadows,
You said enough, and you took control.
That's all you ever had to do.

He had a loving wife
A gleaming ray of sunshine,
A pillar of love and support in his life,
In times of need and care

Blessed with a pretty little daughter
She was their pride and joy,
A glistening ball of laughter,
That made all objects her toy

She was the giver of surprises,
That they forgot existed in life’s journey,
She was the seeker of attention,
And they never stopped giving

He got a call one day,
From his wife about his daughter,
To come back soon today,
And look at a disaster

He heads back home,
Thoughts gripped in fear,
Wondering whatever could have happened
To his little miss sunshine

He arrives to find a stranger,
In his front yard, a common beggar,
With tattered torn outfits,
And an unkempt bushy beard

His daughter pleads to keep him with them,
A pitiful sight he was to her,
The man with no name,
An outcast of society

And so eventually he became family,
The house servant with ever gratitude,
For the beings that took him in,
Food and shelter were no longer a bother

They went for a dinner one night,
At the hotel to celebrate her birth,
And at her demand, their servant followed too
To marvel at chandeliers and gaze at silverware
And when they dined, so did the hesitant servant,
The lord and lady gestured him to eat,
The little girl smiled at him and picked up his hand,
And told him how to hold the silverware,
He looked at her with teary eyes,
Gazed at his lord and lady and spoke,
“Sir, this is my mother here.”
“My ever-giving mother, until the day I no longer breathe, I am her ever grateful guardian”

The lord and lady stood awestruck,
At the significance of her actions,
At the wisdom of her young mind,
They embraced her tightly,
Thanking her for the lessons in life,
Their young Mother gleamed brightly,
As she picked up her spoon to fiddle.

A tale you spin on the table,
Tears and fears in your fable,
Open that white book and write soon,
For I fear you will not last too soon,
I know your story has a complex entity,
and I know you seek her pity

These lines will matter like the lines on her forehead,
These words will linger where her heart is ahead,
An unruly stranger will knock the door,
Ignore, 'cause you have already walked on that floor

You are on your own,
A dissident personified on his own,
They have always talked about caring,
You know the absence of one for sharing

You are on your own,
You linger where the ears don't hear and mouths don't care,
You write to gain attention of eyes that don't see,
You are lost in between these lines,

I'll see you on the next piece of paper,
I'll see you in between the layers.

His lines run long and deep,
A landscape shaped from the constant tales,
He has let them seep into deep,
From near and far, setting wind to their sails

The collector he has become to bear,
A tale or two, from weary travellers,
They seek to drop their baggage of fear,
He collects them all, a book he holds dear

A book bonded to him, by long heavy chains,
Just like Gaiman and his Destiny in Sandman,
He walks around with mental notes of pains,
Dreams crashed and loves lost, all collected by the Sandman

He doesn't judge, as he has been in their positions,
Both sinner and victim, by choice and by force,
Never moments to be proud of but memories of decisions,
Inner turmoil that toss and turn, a reckoning force

If left unchecked, he would reckon,
he would have lost sanity and turned to be the Joker,
"Some men just want to watch the world burn",
But that can't be a solution,

So he collects and he places a mark,
On each chapter and timeline, changing roles,
It made him be more wary, places in the dark,
Plots and characters, written after they perform their roles

But he's not the only one,
There are many more around time and locations,
They go about with a collection of tales,
Sworn to secrecy and bound to take it six feet under,
The book of Destiny tied to their feet,
Each step taken with an acute sense of awareness,
They walk among us, never showing their true-selves,
Only long thin lines running deep,
Until another one comes up.

Like the rotating gears of an inner machine,

She changes even by staying in the same spot,

Patiently moving, to the rhythm of her set nature,

Ignoring the outside noises.



Like the loud tolling of a bell,

They sway to the inner strings,

A repeated constant noise to a humdrum existence,

A shiny exterior to a loud existence



Like the pipes that carry fluids,

He sits there and lets all of them pass,

Maintaining an inner path and an outer protection,

A crazy network of rusted metal, inside and outside.


They all sat there with their roles,

Predetermined and within routines,

Arranged to never go in disarray,

Programmed to function and never question.


Some of us do. Some of us realize it and break.

Some of us manage. Some of us sit here and write this.

Some of us, are still stuck in that factory.