Discussions with my conscience have me separating nonsense.
It's the struggle I'm invovled in
Perhaps my aim prolongs my progress.
It's a shame I can't offers, besides the price tags on my head.
They instigate my every breath. I'm thinking far ahead the rest.
I contemplate my early death. What happens if I miss a step?
I can't just stop and try again. My only hope is to pretend.
It's my precison that empowers.
The taste of life is sweet and sour.
I write my hour in terms of minutes.
I scarcely smile no time for grinning.
But when I do rejoice in laughter.
It reminds me what I'm after.
So I just smile in thoughts of bliss.
Oh how I miss my innocense.