I write as my pen bleeds of silence.
My thoughts are in a mix,
Can’t seem to deny it.

I see pleasure,
I feel it.
I see pain,
I feel it.

A constant oscillation,
Repetition of obstructions,
Stuck in the middle,
With my odd contemplations.

Hope is the wicked
Four lettered word.
Pushing times,
Putting rhymes,
In my mind.

I write,
Hoping one day,
My words find a child.
Makes his bright wide eyes open,
makes his life a little less stress song.

I drink an expresso,
Paint a monotone,
with my small block rod.
I plead and I plead.
Take it easy on yourselves.
The highways aren’t too high,
The plateaus aren’t too low.

You see,
Sinners and preachers are we,
Sinning silently,
Preaching proudly.
Sinners made from two clothes.
The ones who regret,
The ones who don’t.
Regretters shall be redeemed
For redemption is God

The others shall live soundlessly
In captivity.

God will eat the evil
And spare the good.
But we are the ones in the middle,
The misunderstood.

Will we be doomed?
Will we be tamed?
Will we be tired?
Or will we be ashamed?

But why ponder now?
We alive!!!
Let’s live a god damn lie.