50.

Ever evolving.

The dead ego, is ever in coffin.

Living from my soul is ever in forming.

Like ever informants, shedding light to the world that’s covered in darkness.

I may be harmless, but my pen is ever in parlance.

Penetrating the heart, and penetrating the mind.

Ever writing, its an art, it’s much more than a rhyme.

How I line up, my words up, admiring my lines like I’m hanging my verse up.

I’m hanging my verbs up;

To hang out in my cursings.

Sufferance.

As, these poetic lines are my only utterance.

Weakness.

Shedding my pain like a difficult misery.

I tend to take things literally, deeply, and cynically.

Walking this dark road alone only made me hallucinate visually.

Searching for love’s entities, I wonder what truly will be the end of me.

And, I feel trapped on this plane,

God, must have sentenced me.

And I never cry no more.

I never lie no more…

I am as honest as a truth told willingly.

Silly me, to grow in such filthy things…

Sinful action, sinful captions.

Deleted my egotism, and now I’m fully battered in musical notes.

Hoping that my poetry will go down as musical hope – to the soul.