There is a song that takes me to different places

I can only find inside my mind.

But darkness takes place

at the end of harmony calling for possibility of the demise.

A poetry of murder speaks in a form of a gentle encouragement

to hold that piece of knife in my hand,

and stab it in my own heart.

We're all victims of our thoughts.

But who gets to survive and fight 'em all?

'Cause even the strong ones crawl

Some of the weak stands and change.

While the strength of those who pretend to believe

their steel courage within

tires out and laments through blood flow out of their veins.

Marks in their necks.

Gunshot in their heads.

I speak praises of God and the saints

Such a hypocrite's joy when they couldn't see the blades

I've been hiding in a casket-shaped compartment.

And in my head I seek my father's cabinet

for his Calibre 45.

But in the eyes of the Supreme I can't escape.

Apologies are overrated while forgiveness is divine.

I forgive, but now I don't think I deserve the kind.

Let me be an influence, I said.

An inspiration to the masses, I added.

I guess it'll take more than a prayer to aim for a yearning

that can only be done by an admired capability.

I don't have it.

We're all victims of our thoughts.

But who gets to survive and fight 'em all?

'Cause even the strong ones fall.

Some of the weak cries and bleeds.

While the delicately brave get down on both knees

to surrender and offer their souls

Saying they're not strong enough after all.

A farewell in black ink against deep white paper.

A tear fall on a brown wooden table.

I imagined 'em all.

A rope in my neck.

A gunshot in my head.