Cool my head when I paint with my pen,
The paints then runoff to the side.
The text are vext, canceled and next,
A grotesque bird appears to reside.
"How much mad," they ask if I'm sad,
"Was he always abnormally bold"
Growing up like fern, weed astern,
I never knew I had grown up this old.
Now what others pretend to unsee,
I can't stop my pen from painting free.
They rise as a mass, declare the crass,
Is too much for the normal to see.
Truth and trust, transparency all rust,
The society of sin secretly grieve.
A creed of greed, vapid valor in seed,
Imaginary gods make believe.
The false hope, many out of scope,
Round and bound, echoes of their sound.
Now and then, again and again,
I let my pen stand its ground.
Febrile and few, my words in queue,
I am no match for the mob.
From my cot, I can only warn of rot,
Destiny's child now a mother's sob.
I can only try, words cannot fly,
They can only be read.
If you are, indeed reading this,
You see inside my sordid head.
