This day

For I stand in line for my name to be called I am a slave of my thoughts, everyday going astray My mission is to utter lines of wisdom than to pray For those who pray have much to say A promise of ever life shall make them stay They think I’m a pagan but surely that’s ok A roaming mind and a harming heart My parallel ideas shall polish this rhythm A line written in a blank page as a hymn But sang in the ghetto as an anthem Am I a slave of my ideas or it’s me? Whisper in vain, I live in pain. A petite knowledge of true self That bakes the incompleteness in me I brew concrete discreet secretes under this pillow Seducing your competence and incompetence Shall I stammer before finishing this sentence? To release the tension in your stomach The smoke in my yellow-red eyes A cracked jolly good joke in your arse I said nothing to provoke this poking pose That pierces through my incapable dime rhymes That I dine perversely in at this stage At this age I’m free to dirty this page. This day is vivaciously testing my skill It‘s an erect penetration of bleak weak suggestions I’m a lion that never saw the sun, raised by a nun Never allowed to spit evil techniques I brew concrete discreet secretes under this pillow This pillow shrieks of this day’s tears. Speak to me, I’m all ears…