My days run away from me.
I get caught behind dust and fragments of perceptions you have.
I’m a writer.
I’m a composer.
I’m a lost soul.
I am at the beginning of my journey for a poetic magnanimous living.
I have tried to force destiny,
And empty lungs are the only sound singing me to sleep.
I improve as I go.
I seek in my writing not your friendly approval.
I respect hatred, disgrace, and disputed words.
I will be greatness.
I shall create my own world of words or die with ink in my mind.
The world loves to rape an unmolested soul and this I feel comfort in.
I sold my soul long ago,
And to you I hope to never quote that price.